•iriililiiiiiiifiiiiliiliif  TKfti'^- 


LlBTIAnr  OF  THE 


807.73 

Wl4.b2b 

Wells,   CaroBiyn 

AUTHOR 

Baubles 

TITLE                  ^ 

6155  V^ 

6133  V 


Baubles 


-+e 


LIBRARY  OF  THE 
WALT  DISNEY  STUDIO 


^* 


BAUBLES 


BAUBLES— 


BY 


CAROLYN  WELLS 


UBBARY  Oc  TU 
WALT^  DISNEY  STU 


Author  of  "A  Nonsense  Anthology,"  "The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Motot 
Car,"    etc. 


PICTURED    BY 

OLIVER  HERFORD 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


tf 


Copyright,   1900, 

BY  DODD,   MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

As  "Idle  Idyls" 

Copyright,   1917 
BY  DODD,   MEAD  AND   COMPANY,   inc. 


m  o^lmi^^o 


To  OLIVER  HERFORD 

GUIDE,  PHILOSOPHER,  &*  FRIEND 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/baublesOOwelliala 


CONTENTS 

I   Am   nae   Poet 2 

The  Spelling  Lesson 3 

A  Warning 4 

Sighted 7 

The  Moss  in  the  Wood 9 

To  Omar 10 

To  a  Milkmaid 13 

The  Lure  of  the  Unknown 1 5 

Impressions  of  Chicago 16 

The  Derelict 18 

Ifs  for  Cubists 19 

Fame 21 

To  a  Poet 23 

The  Glorious  West 25 

A  Recollection 27 

Ballade  of  Old  Loves 30 

Maiden  Meditation 32 

A  Rara  Avis 33 

A  Pastoral  in  Posters 35 

Country  in  Summer 36 

vii 


CONTENTS 

The  111  Wind 37 

A  Tantalus  Number 39 

My  Friends 41 

To  Certain  Conservatives 42 

The  Annual  Sentence 45 

A  Ballade  of  Indignation 46 

My  Familiar 48 

A  Ballad  of  Christmas  Burdens.    ...  50 

The  Poster  Girl 53 

Sonnet  on  the  Sonnet  on  the  Sonnet.    .  55 

Spring's  Revenge 56 

A  Ballade  of  Petition 61 

Cupid's  Failure 64 

The  Celebrants 65 

"They  that  go  down  to  the  Sea  in  Ships"  66 

A  Maiden's  No 69 

The  Original  Summer  Girl     .    .        .    .  70 

The  Debutante 71 

Ballade  of  Wisdom  and  Folly     ....  73 

A  Possibility 75 

A  Memory 76 

On  Meeting  an  Old  Friend 79 

An  Aquarelle 81 

In  Absence 84 

From  Vivette's  Milicmaid 85 

A  Woman's  Wail 86 

viii 


CONTENTS 

The  Discriminant 89 

Transcendence 92 

Personal  Impressions  of  Texas  ....  93 

A  Picture 95 

A  Problem 96 

The  Degenerate  Novelist 99 

Her  Spinning-Wheel 100 

Woman's  Way 101 

One  Week. 104 

How  to  Tell  The  Wild  Animals  .    ...  105 

A  Christmas  Petition 107 

Quatrain 108 

An  Illusion 109 

Baby's  Laugh Ill 

Her  Easter  Morning 112 

An  Unwritten  Poem 1 1 5 

The  Book  Ufter 118 

Utilitarian      121 

Under  a  New  Charter 122 

Left 125 

Trifles 126 

The  Lay  of  Lothario  Lee 127 

Christmas  Eve 132 

Past  and  Present 133 

Epitaph  on  a  Ballet  Dancer 135 

An  Important  Trust 136 

ix 


CONTENTS 

An  Unorthodox  Christmas 138 

In  the  Klondike 140 

Cela  Va  Sans  Dire 142 

The  Thoughtful  Yardsticic 143 

My  Favorite  Author .  144 

Of  Modern  Boolcs 146 

The  Horseless  Age 148 

With  Trumpets  Also  and  Shawms  ...  149 

An  Overworked  Elocutionist 1 5 1 

Ballade  of  Ecclesiastes 155 

The  Order  of  The  Literati 157 


BAUBLES 


'T  AM  nae  Poet,  in  a  sense, 
"*■     But  just  a  Rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretense, 
Yet,  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 
I  jingle  at  her." 


BAUBLES 


THE  SPELLING  LESSON 


WHEN  Venus  said:  "Spell  no  for  me," 
"N-O,"  Dan  Cupid  wrote  with  glee. 
And  smiled  at  his  success; 
*'Ah,  child,"  said  Venus,  laughing  low, 
"We  women  do  not  spell  it  so. 
We  spell  it  Y-E-S." 


A  WARNING 

/^H,  you  Summer  Girl! 

^^      You  ridiculous,  absurd,  hackneyed,  over- 
worked, adorable  Summer  Girl! 
You  shirt-waisted  goddess 
And  sailor-hatted  sylph. 
You  picturesque  potpourri  of  outing  effects. 
You  think  you're  great. 
Don't  you? 
And  you  are. 

You're  a  power,  and  a  queen,  and  a  tyrant. 
And  you  know  it, 
And  you  glory  in  it. 
And  I  don't  blame  you. 
I  think  you're  all  right  myself. 
But— 

Although  you  rule  your  young  men. 
Your  swains  and  gallants  and  cavaliers — 
Although  you  think 
All  mankind  bow  beneath  your  sway, 
It  isn't  true. 
I  defy  you ! 

4 


A    WARNING 

I! 

I  am  your  lord  and  master,  and  of  me  you  are 

afraid ; 
Abjectly,  shrinkingly,  and  shudderingly  afraid. 
Who  am  I  ? 
I  am  Time,  Father  Time;  your  friend  and  ally 

now. 
But  remember, 
I  have  you  in  my  power, 
Irrevocably  in  my  power. 
And  at  my  will  I  can  transform  you  into  a 

crone. 
An  old,  wrinkled,  haggard,  toothless  crone. 
But  I  won't  do  it — at  least,  not  now. 
For  a  few  years  I  will  let  you  defy  me. 
You  may  misuse  me,  waste  me,  and  even  try 

to  kill  me. 
And  I  will  only  serve  you  faithfully  in  return. 
And  bring  you  triumphs  and  happinesses. 
But  some  day 

I  will  steal  your  treasures — 
Your  bewitching  gowns. 
And  coquettish  hats. 
Yes,  and  I  will  steal 
The  roses  from  your  cheeks 
And  the  sparkle  from  your  eyes. 
5 


BAUBLES 

And  then,  milady, 

What  will  you  do? 

But  meanwhile,  Summer  Girl, 

Have  all  the  fun  you  can. 

And  now, 

Run  away  and  play. 


SIGHTED 

QJT.  VALENTINE'S  ship  comes  sailing 
^  Across  the  Sea  of  Dreams; 
Roses  hang  from  the  railing, 
The  golden  pennant  gleams. 

Blown  by  the  winds  of  Fancy, 
Careless  of  maps  or  charts; 

Steered  by  Love's  necromancy, 
And  ballasted  with  hearts. 

Across  the  space  between  us 

She  glides  on  even  keel; 
Her  figurehead's  a  Venus, 

And  Cupid's  at  the  wheel. 

The  turtle-doves  are  swinging 
In  wreaths  hung  from  the  bow; 

Youth  at  the  helm  is  singing. 
And  Pleasure  at  the  prow. 
7 


BAUBLES 

Freighted  with  fair  Romances, 
Love-knots  and  ribbons  blue; 

As  nearer  she  advances 
I  hear  the  ringdoves  coo. 

Ho!  maidens,  all  be  merry. 
And,  gallants,  pay  your  court; 

Fourteenth  of  February 
She  will  arrive  in  port. 


THE  MOSS  IN  THE  WOOD 

T    AST  Saturday,  living  around  in  the  Spring, 
'-^     With  a  dogwood  abloom  and  a  fliclcer 

awing, 
As  the  sun  wriggled  down  through  the  branches 

a-toss, 
I  chanced  on  a  patch  of  new,  young  baby  moss. 
You  never  have  lived  if  you  never  have  seen 
The  rapturous  hue  of  that  gold-glinted  green! 
And  I  penned  up  my  ink  as  fast  as  I  could 
To  write  of  that  darling  young  moss  in  the 

wood. 
But  no  words  seemed  to  come,  for  no  words 

could  express 
The  color  of  that  vernant,  wild  loveliness. 
That  moss  in  the  wood!     That  moss  in  the 

wood! 
The  heart-breaking  green  of  that  moss  in  the 

wood! 


TO  OMAR 

r\  MAR  KHAYYAM,  you're  a  jolly  old  Aryan, 
^^      Half  sybaritic  and  semi-barbarian, 
Not  a  bit  mystic,  but  utilitarian, 
Fond  of  a  posy  and  fond  of  a  dram. 
Symbolist,  poet,  and  clear-eyed  philospher, 
Had  you  a  wife  I  am  sure  you  were  boss  of  her. 
Yet  you'd  be  ruled  by  the  coquettish  toss  of  her 
Garland-crowned  head  at  you,  Omar  Khayydm. 
For  there  is  vanity 
In  your  humanity. 
Else  your  urbanity 
Were  but  a  flam; 
And  the  severity 
Of  your  austerity 
Proves  your  sincerity, 
Omar  Khayydm. 

Well  I  remember  when  first  you  were  heralded, 
Persian-born  poesy  ably  Fitzgeralded ; 
Impulse  said  buy  you — and  I  to  my  peril  did : 
Now  a  meek  slave  to  your  genius  I  am. 

10 


TO    OMAR 

Some  of  your  doctrines  to  us  may  seem  hate- 
able, 
Though  we  admit  that  the  themes  are  debatable; 
But  your  ideas,  are  they  really  translatable 
Into  our  languages,  Omar  Khayydm? 
In  your  society 
All  inebriety 
Seems  but  propriety, 
Truth  but  a  sham ; 
And  the  reality 
Of  your  carnality 
Courts  immortality, 
Omar  Khayydm. 

From  the  grave  depths  of  your  massive  tran- 
quillity 
Thoughts  you  produce,  knowing  well  their  fu- 
tility, 
Thoughts  that  you  phrase  with  a  fatal 

facility, — 
Hurl  with  the  force  of  a  battering-ram ! 
But  we  care  not  though  your  message  be  cynical. 
Not  very  creedal,  and  scarcely  rabbinical, 
We,  your  adorers,  put  you  on  a  pinnacle. 
For  that  we  love  you,  old  Omar  Khayyam, 
Though  you're  erroneous, 
II 


BAUBLES 


Still  you're  harmonious, 
And  you're  euphonious 
In  epigram. 
O'er  the  censorious 
You  are  victorious; 
We  hold  you  glorious, 
Omar  Khayyam. 


TO  A  MILKMAID 

THAIL  thee,  O  milkmaid! 

■■■     Goddess  of  the  gaudy  morn,  hail! 

Across  the  mead  tripping, 

Invariably  across  the  mead  tripping. 

The  merry  mead  with  cowslips  blooming, 

With  daisies  blooming, 

The  milkmaid  also  more  or  less  blooming! 

i  hail  thee,  O  milkmaid ! 

I  recognise  the  value  of  thy  pail  in  literature 

and  art. 
What  were  a  pastoral  poet  without  thee? 
Oh,  I  know  thee,  milkmaid! 
I  hail  thy  jaunty  juvenescence. 
I  know  thy  eighteen  summers  and  thy  eternal 

springs. 
Ay,  I  know  thy  trials! 
I  know  how  thou  art  outspread  over  pastoral 

poetry. 
Rampant,  ubiquitous,  inevitable,  thy  riotings  in 

pastoral  poetry, 
And  in  masterpieces  of  pastoral  art! 
How  oft  have  I  seen  thee  sitting; 
On  a  tri-legged  stool  sitting; 
On  the  wrong  side  of  the  cow  sitting; 
13 


BAUBLES 

Garbed  in  all  thy  preposterous  paraphernalia. 

I  know  thy  paraphernalia — 

Yea,  even  thy  impossible  milkpail  and  thy  im- 
probable bodice. 

Short-skirted  siren ! 

Big-hatted  beauty! 

What  were  the  gentle  spring  without  thee? 

I  hail  thee ! 

I  hail  thy  vernality,  and  I  rejoice  in  thy  hack- 
neyed ubiquitousness. 

I  hail  the  superiority  of  thy  inferiorness,  and 

I  lay  at  thy  feet  this  garland  of  gratuitous 

Hails! 


»4 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  UNKNOWN 

T  'VE  often  wondered,  for  the  nonce, 
"'■     What  people  do  when  they  ensconce. 
I've  sat  on  sofas  and  on  chairs. 
On  davenports  and  on  the  stairs, 
On  hammocks  and  piazza  swings; 
On  ruined  thrones  of  ancient  kings. 
But,  whether  upon  this  or  that, 
I've  simply,  solely,  plainly  sat. 
And  ere  I'm  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
I'm  anxious  to  ensconce  myself. 
It's  often  done  in  story-books — 
Mostly  editions  de  luxe. 
Where  ladies  of  patrician  mien, 
Attired  in  robes  of  silken  sheen. 
Ensconce  themselves  on  divans  rich. 
Behind  the  arras — in  a  niche — 
(Or  some  such  place,  at  any  rate; 
I  am  not  sure  I  have  it  straight)  — 
And  when  they  are  ensconced,  they  meet 
Some  great  adventure — dire  or  sweet. 
Of  course,  I  count  such  things  as  naught. 
'Twas  but  a  passing,  idle  thought. 
But  I'd  ensconce  just  once,  to  see 
What  then  would  happen  unto  me! 
15 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  CHICAGO 

"CHICAGO  is,  I  think,  out  West. 
-^     I've  not  been  there,  but  I  like  best 
To  write  of  local  matters  in 
Places  where  I  have  never  been. 

It  seems  to  me,  from  what  I  hear, 
It's  like  those  pictures  strange  and  queer 
That  interest  me,  when  I  look. 
In  my  big  Dante  picture-book. 

Chicago  people,  I  am  told. 

Have  hearts  and  dinner  plates  of  gold. 

But  as  to  that,  I  cannot  say; 

I  never  have  been  out  that  way. 

Their  independence  is  their  pride; 
Convention's  knots  they  have  untied. 
Their  conversation's  full  of  spice, — 
Chicago  must  be  very  nice. 

I've  heard  it  is  extremely  gay; 
'Most  every  street's  a  Great  White  Way. 
Men  freely  spend  what  they  call  "chink"; 
It  sounds  attractive — don't  you  think? 
i6 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    CHICAGO 

I've  heard,  too,  of  their  earnest  crowd; 
Extension-souled,  and  most  high-browed. 
They  chase  the  Beautiful  and  True, 
And  only  use  Thought  that  is  new. 

And  so  you  readily  can  see, 
What  a  nice  place  it  seems  to  be; 
I've  not  been  there — and  I  don't  know 
Just  when  I  can  arrange  to  go. 

In  fact,  I  oftenest  keep  out 
Of  places  that  I  write  about. 
Their  great  attractions  I  admit. 
But  I  take  others'  word  for  it. 


17 


THE  DERELICT 

T  TPON  the  sad,  illusive  Sea  of  Dreams, 

^      A  phantom  barque,  tossed  by  the  bil- 
lows, rides 
At  mercy  of  the  shifting  winds  and  tides; 

And  on  its  ghostly  sail  the  moonlight  gleams. 

Abandoned  by  all  mariners  it  seems; 

No  staying  hand  its  reckless  rudder  guides. 
Yet  smoothly  o'er  the  trackless  deep  it  glides, 

Unheeding  that  its  course  with  danger  teems. 

Across  the  watery  dark  my  way  I  grope, 

I  will  adopt  this  derelict  so  fair; 

I  raise  my  flag  and  float  my  colours  there — 
But  with  its  waywardness  1  cannot  cope; 

I,  too,  abandon  it  in  my  despair, 
It  is  unseaworthy.    Its  name  is  Hope. 


z8 


IFS  FOR  CUBISTS 

T  F  you  can  paint  a  head,  when  all  about  you 
•■•     Seem  standing  on  their  own  to  look  at 

you. 
If  you  can  draw  a  stair  though  all  men  doubt 
you, — 
Yet  make  them  swear  it  is  a  staircase,  too. 
If  you  can  fake  and  not  get  caught  at  faking, 

If  you  can  paint  a  disembodied  pain. 
Or  symbolise  a  very  young  earth  quaking; 
And  yet  don't  paint  too  good  nor  draw  too 
plain. 

If  you  can  catch  expressions  with  a  lasso, 
Or  spear  emotions  with  unerring  aim ; 
If  you  can  study  Matisse  and  Picasso, 

Yet  call  those  two,  Impostors,  just  the  same. 

If  you  can  bear  to  see  the  Cubes  you've  painted 

Jeered  by  the  wise  to  make  a  joke  for  fools, 

And    hear    your    Masterpiece,     "An     Angel 

Fainted," 

Jibed  by  the  worn-out  codes  of  worn-out 

schools. 

19 


BAUBLES 

If  you  can  make  one  heap  of  all  your  scrapings, 

And  sling  it  at  your  canvas, — pitch-and-toss; 
Then  with  a  palette-knife  suggest  some  shap- 
ings 

Of  crabs  cavorting  in  a  Skein  of  Floss. 
If  you  can  force  committee  men  to  view  it; 

Although  they  swear  long  after  they  are 
gone; 
And  get  it  hung,  when  there  is  nothing  to  it 

Except  the  palette-scrapings  you  flung  on. 

If  you  can  draw  a  crowd  and  keep  your  temper, 

Or  paint  a  Nude,  nor  lose  the  Cubist  touch; 
If  you  can  kalsomine  her  in  distemper, 

And  indicate  her  soul, — but  not  too  much. 
If  you  can  gull  the  unsuspecting  critic 

With  sixty  pictures  that  do  not  exist; 
You'll  have  the  Artists  all  struck  paralytic; 

And  what  is  more  you'll  be  a  Futurist. 


FAME 

TF  I  go  with  my  friends  to  ride, 
■'■      Perhaps  in  some  historic  town, 
They  say  with  ill-concealed  pride, 

"That  used  to  be  the  home  of  Brown  I" 

Or  if  I'm  in  some  other  State, 

They  say,  "By  dint  of  much  research. 

We  have  discovered,  sure  as  fate. 

That's  where  Jones  used  to  go  to  church!" 

Or  eagerly  they  cry,  "Look  there!" 

I  see  a  heap  of  bricks  and  sod! 
"We  think  that  was  the  smithy  where 

Robinson  had  his  horses  shod!" 

Ah  me!  'tis  great  to  be  renowned! 

I  long  to  think,  in  years  long  hence. 
People  may  slowly  drive  around 

My  somewhat  battered  garden  fence! 


21 


BAUBLES 

I  love  to  think,  as  at  a  shrine, 

Their  awestruck  gaze  will  rove  about, 

And  reverently  they'll  opine, 

"That's  where  she  hung  her  washing  out!" 


23 


VT'ES,  Poet,  I  am  coming  down  to  earth, 
■'■       To  spend  the  merry  months  of  blossom- 
time; 
But  don't  break  out  in  paeans  of  glad  mirth 
(Expressed  in  hackneyed  rhyme.) 
23 


BAUBLES 

For  once,  dear  Poet,  won't  you  kindly  skip 
Your  ode  of  welcome?     It  is  such  a  bore; 

I  am  no  chicken,  and  I've  made  the  trip 
Six  thousand  times  or  more. 

And  as  I  flutter  earthward  every  year, 
You  must  admit  that  it  grows  rather  stale 

When  I  arrive,  repeatedly  to  hear 
The  same  old  annual  "Hail!" 

Time  was  when  I  enjoyed  the  poet's  praise, 
Will    Shakspere's    song,    or    Mr.    Milton's 
hymn; 

Or  even  certain  little  twittering  lays 
By  ladies  quaint  and  prim. 

Chaucer  and  Spenser  filled  riie  with  delight, — 
And  how  I  loved  to  hear  Bob  Herrick  woo! 

Old  Omar  seemed  to  think  I  was  all  right. 
And  Aristotle,  too. 

But  I  am  sated  with  this  fame  and  glory. 
Oh,  Poet,  leave  Parnassian  heights  unsealed; 

This  time  let  me  be  spared  the  same  old  story. 
And  come  for  once  unbailed! 


24 


THE  GLORIOUS  WEST 

/^F  all  locations,  I  love  best 
^^     Our  great  and  glorious  golden  West, 
The  sort  of  life  they  live  out  there 
Keeps  one  out  in  the  open  air. 
I  love  to  see  the  cowboys  stride 
O'er  pike  and  peak.    Or  else  they  ride 
A  bucking  broncho  or  mustang 
And  join  a  fierce  and  fearsome  gang. 
The  cowboys  all  wear  lovely  suits, 
With  sharp,  spiked  holsters  on  their  boots. 
And  buckskin  lassos,  trimmed  with  fringe. 
They're  never  known  to  blench  or  cringe. 
But  to  a  foe  they  say,  "Drop  that!" 
And  shoot  him  with  their  lariat. 
The  cowboys  are  so  good  and  brave 
The  lives  of  sweet  young  girls  they  save. 
And  standing  in  their  ranch's  door 
They  shoot  marauders  by  the  score. 
And  picking  up  his  wounded  pal 
He  lays  him  safe  in  the  corral! 
Then  there  are  thrilling  scenes  indeed, 
25 


BAUBLES 

When  the  Sombrero  mounts  his  steed, 

And  ranges  o'er  his  pronto  claim 

To  brand  the  cattle  with  their  shame! 

Then  he  encounters  in  a  den 

A  band  of  big  bloodthirsty  men, 

Who  just  play  cards  and  smoke  and  drink. 

They  call  them  Coyotes,  I  think. 

But,  anyway,  they  fight  and  rage 

Until  they're  all  pushed  off  the  stage. 

Oh,  all  about  the  West  I  know; 

I've  seen  the  Moving-Picture  Show. 


26 


A  RECOLLECTION 


TT OW  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  old  Christ- 
"'■  •*•      mas  presents, 

When  fond   recollection   presents  them  to 
view; 
The  hand-painted  "game  sets"  with  woodcock 
and  pheasants, 
The  lambrequins,  crewel-worked  in  olive  and 
blue. 
The  bead  sofa  cushion,  the  knit  afghan  nigh  it. 
The  tile-pipe  umbrella-stand,  meant  for  the 
hall; 
The  big  Rogers'  Group — (father  loved  so  to 
buy  it!) 
And  the  worsted-work  motto  to  hang  on  the 
wall. 

The  old  worsted  motto, 
The  Bristol-board  motto. 
The  rustic  framed  motto  that  hung  on  the  wall. 
27 


BAUBLES 

How  well  I  remember  the  wording  upon  it; 
'Twas   "God  Bless  Our   Home"  in  letters 
quite  wild. 
And  a  worsted-work  lady  in  worsted-work  bon- 
net, 
Who  held  in  her  arm  a  worsted-work  child. 
Some  Florida  grasses  were  bunched  in  behind 

it; 
(Quite  dusty, — ^though  cleaned  in  the  spring 
and  the  fall.) 
I'd  give  a  round  sum  if  I  only  could  find  it, — 
That  old  worsted  motto  that  hung  on  the 
wall. 

The  old  worsted  motto, 
The  Bristol-board  motto, 
The  rustic  framed  motto  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

Though  now  I  have  many  a  painting  and  etch- 
ing, 
Though   I   have   engravings   and   Japanese 
prints; 
And  quaint  old  framed  samples    (considered 
quite  fetching), 
And    Impressionist    pictures    in    marvellous 
tints; 
And  photographs  of  every  temple  and  grotto, — 
28 


A     RECOLLECTION 

I  think  I'd  be  willing  to  part  with  them  all 
If  I  could  recover  that  precious  old  motto, 
That  old  worsted  motto  that  hung  on  the 
wall. 

The  old  worsted  motto, 
The  Bristol-board  motto, 
The  rustic  framed  motto  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

N.  B. — The  above  is  entirely  mendacious. 

That  motto  was  really  a  perfect  old  fright. 
And  should  I  recover  it, — my  goodness  gra- 
cious! 
How  quickly  I'd  tuck  it  away  out  of  sight. 
But  poets,  you  know,  at  this  glad  Christmas 
season. 
Must  be  reminiscent,  and  tender  withal; 
We  must  strike  a  heart-interest,  so  that  is  the 
reason 
I  sing  the  old  motto  than  hung  on  the  wall. 
The  old  worsted  motto. 
The  Bristol-board  motto, 
The  rustic  framed  motto  that  hung  on  the  wall. 


29 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  LOVES 

TITHO  is  it  stands  on  the  polished  stair, 
' '^       A  merry,  laughing,  winsome  maid, 
From  the  Christmas  rose  in  her  golden  hair 
To   the   high-heeled   slippers   of   spangled 

su^de  ? 
A  glance,  half  daring  and  half  afraid, 
Gleams  from  her  roguish  eyes  downcast; 

Already  the  vision  begins  to  fade — 
'Tis  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 

Who  is  it  sits  in  that  high-backed  chair. 
Quaintly  in  ruff  and  patch  arrayed. 

With  a  moclcery  gay  of  a  stately  air 

As  she  rustles  the  folds  of  her  old  brocade, — 
Merriest  heart  at  the  masquerade? 

Ah,  but  the  picture  is  passing  fast 

Back  to  the  darkness  from  which  it  strayed — 

Tis  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 

Who  is  it  whirls  in  a  ball-room's  glare. 
Her  soft  white  hand  on  my  shoulder  laid. 

Like  a  radiant  lily,  tall  and  fair, 

While  the  violins  in  the  corner  played 
30 


BALLADE     OF     OLD     LOVES 

The  wailing  strains  of  the  Serenade? 
Oh,  lovely  vision,  too  sweet  to  last — 

E'en  now  my  fancy  it  will  evade — 
'Tis  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 


L'ENVOI 

Rosamond !  look  not  so  dismayed, 
All  of  my  heart,  dear  love,  thou  hast. 

Jealous,  beloved?     Of  a  shade?  — 
'Tis  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 


31 


MAIDEN  MEDITATION 

(A  RONDEAU) 

TV/TYRTILLA  thinks!  be  still,  oh,  breeze, 
-^    ■*•     Ye  birds,  cease  warbling  in  the  trees, 

Ye  wavelets,  your  light  plash  subdue. 

Ye  turtle-doves,  neglect  to  coo. 
And  silent  be,  ye  buzzing  bees, 

Lest  even  your  soft  harmonies 
Intrude  upon  such  thoughts  as  these, 
For  though  astonishing,  'tis  true, 
Myrtilla  thinks! 

Plunged  in  profoundest  reveries, 
Fair  visions  her  rapt  fancy  sees; 

So  undecided  what  to  do — 

Shall  she  wear  pink?  shall  she  wear  blue? 
Amid  her  pretty  fineries 
Myrtilla  thinks! 


32 


A  KARA  AVIS 


/^NCE  there  was  an  Easter  Bonnet 
^^     With  some  wings  and  feathers  on  it, 
And  a  tiny  shiny  buckle  in  a  bit  of  ribbon 
shirred. 
Said  the  ladies,  "Please  inform  us 
Why  its  bill  is  so  enormous," 

And  that  foolish  little  Easter  Bonnet  thought 
it  was  a  bird! 

33 


BAUBLES 

It  slyly  watched  its  chances, 
And  escaping  people's  glances, 

It  flew  straight  out  the  window  and  it  lighted 
on  a  tree. 
With  fear  its  wings  were  quaking. 
And  its  little  frame  was  shaking, 

But  it  sat  there  smiling  bravely  though  'twas 
frightened  as  could  be. 

Said  the  birds,  "You're  of  our  feather, 
Come  and  let  us  flock  together," 

But  the  Bonnet  answered  proudly,  "I'm  ex- 
clusive and  select; 
And  although  I  could  be  pleasant 
To  an  ostrich  or  a  pheasant. 

For  me  to  herd  with  common  birds  you 
really  can't  expect." 

Said  a  hunter,  "This  is  pretty, 
I  will  take  it  home  to  Kitty," 

Then  he  aimed  his  gun  and  shot  it  and  it  fell 
without  a  word. 
Then  it  gave  a  final  flutter, 
And  pertly  seemed  to  mutter, 

"Well,  after  all,  I'd  rather  be  a  Bonnet  than 
a  bird." 

34 


A  PASTORAL  IN  POSTERS 

'T^HE  midday  moon  lights  up  the  rocky  sky; 
-'-       The  great  hills  flutter  in  the  greenish 

breeze ; 
While  far  above  the  lowing  turtles  fly 
And  light  upon  the  pinky-purple  trees. 

The  gleaming  trill  of  jagged,  feathered  rocks 
I  hear  with  glee  as  swift  I  fly  away, 

And  over  waves  of  subtle  woolly  flocks 
Crashes  the  breaking  day! 


35 


COUNTRY  IN  SUMMER 

/'^OUNTRY  in  golden  Summer!    Far  away, 
^^^     O'er    sunlit    hills    the    purple    shadows 

loom; 
Nearer,  the  fields  of  grain,  that  wave  and  sway: 

And  closer  still,  the  garden's  soft  perfume. 
Ay,  every  hour  of  every  passing  day 

Reveals  new  phase  of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 

A  heavenly  hush  pervades  the  limpid  air; 

Tis  an  event  if  one  rose-petal  fall. 
The  hollyhocks,  lulled  by  the  midday  glare. 

Lean  drowsily  against  the  garden  wall; 
Vanished  is  every  troubling  thought  or  care — 

A  silent  peace  broods  softly  over  all. 

I  scan  the  vistaed  slope,  the  nearby  knoll, 
All  the  green  gamut  of  the  foliage  tones; 

While  at  my  elbow,  in  a  poppy's  bowl, 
A  heavy  golden  bee  incessant  drones. 

And  do  1  love  it?     No!  my  very  soul 
Is  dumbly  shrieking  for  the  city's  stones! 

36 


THE  ILL  WIND 


np  HE  Little  111  Wind  that  blows  nobody  good 
■*-       Came  pufFmg  along  as  fast  as  he  could. 


And  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  wickedly  blew, 
"What  mischief  a  little  ill  wind  can  do!" 

He  came  on  the  wild-rose  bush  with  a  bound, 
And  the  prettiest  petals  fell  off  on  the  ground. 

The  leaves  on  the  trees  he  kept  ashake 
Till  their  poor  little  stems  began  to  ache. 

Oh,  he  was  a  bad  little,  mad  little  wind, 
In  every  possible  way  he  sinned. 

If  a  passer-by  sniffed  the  new-mown  hay, 
He  blew  its  fragrance  the  other  way. 

He  tickled  the  grasses  until  they  shook, 
And  tirelessly  ruffled  a  placid  brook. 

37 


BAUBLES 

He  broke  the  string  of  Tot's  balloon, 
And  carried  it  upwards  toward  the  moon. 

He  blew  back  the  tress  of  Clorinda's  hair, — 
Which  her  lover  had  just  resolved  to  dare. 

Then  he  came  to  my  window,   with  cheeks 

puffed  out, 
And  blew  my  papers  all  about. 

Till  I  threatened  to  put  him  in  print  some 

day,— 
Which  frightened  him  so  that  he  blew  away 

And  hid  himself  in  the  depths  of  the  wood. 
That  little  111  Wind  that  blows  nobody  good. 


38 


A  TANTALUS  NUMBER 

T  LOVE  to  read  the  magazines,  I  read  them, 
■*■      every  word; 

The  stories  are  so  foolish,  the  poems  so  absurd. 
The  articles  so  erudite,  the  essays  so  abstruse; 
And  so  invaluable  the  Hints  for  Happy  House- 
hold Use. 

I  never  miss  a  copy,  I  read  them  every  time; 
The  thirty-five  cent  issues  and  those  that  cost 

a  dime. 
My  tastes  are  catholic,  I  own — but  never  have 

I  seen 
Such  a  fascinating  number  as  "next  month's 

magazine." 

I  hold  my  breath  in  wonder,  as  I  sit  and  read 
about 

The  dazzling  contributions  "next  month's  is- 
sue" will  bring  out! 

'Twould  seem  that  all  great  writers  and  great 
artists  had  combined 

To  make  that  next  month's  issue  the  greatest 
of  its  kind. 

39 


BAUBLES 

Such  masterworks  of  prose  and  verse,  such 
sapience  astute! 

Such  forceful,  brilliant  authors,  all  of  world- 
wide repute! 

Ah,  me!  I've  never  seen  one,  but  my  interest  is 
keen 

To  read  the  next  month's  issue  of  any  maga- 
zine. 


40 


MY  FRIENDS 

TT7*ITHIN  one  room,  around  one  desk 
^^       Consorted  scribblers  three; 
Each  one  was  more  or  less  renowned, — 
Kipling  and  Howells  and  me. 

Kipling  sat  there  with  pen  in  hand. 

But  not  a  word  wrote  he; 
And  Howells,  too,  seemed  lost  in  thought,- 

Which  was  the  case  with  me. 

And  Kipling  smiled  a  blooming  smile 

In  sympathetic  glee, 
As  from  his  heights  of  cleverness 

He  kindly  looked  on  me. 

Howells  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes 

Quite  introspectively; 
Which  somehow  seemed  to  make  me  think 

That  he  approved  of  me. 

They'll  never  write,  they'll  never  speak, — 

They're  photographs,  you  see; 
But  still,  we  are  a  jolly  crowd, — 

Kipling  and  Howells  and  me. 

41 


TO  CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVES 


"flT'HY  this  tempest  in  a  teapot?     Why  this 
^^  much  ado  for  naught? 

Why  this  worry  lest  some  literary  wares  be 
cheaply  bought? 

Our  Few  Books  lie  at  our  elbow,  then  what 
matters  it  to  us 

If  the  Average  Reader's  stock  of  books  is  mul- 
titudinous? 

If  the  publishers  are  issuing  editions  large  and 

cheap, 
Tis  because  the  Average  Reader  will  not  pay 

the  prices  steep. 

We  should  smile  on  them  benignly  and  feel 

very  glad  indeed; 
For  when  books  were  rare  and  costly,  these 

same  people  didn't  read. 

And  I  think  that  the  Enlightened  surely  ought 
to  understand 

42 


TO  CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVES 

That  the  Cheapening  Process  came  to  meet  a 
Popular  Demand. 

Just  as  in  all  other  branches  imitators  imitate — 
Since  we  eat  with  sterling  silver,  must  there  be 
no  triple  plate? 

We  may  have  a  clever  chef,  yet  some  there  be 
who  use  canned  soups, — 

Though  we  own  a  rare  Bacchante  there's  de- 
mand for  Rogers'  Groups. 

And  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to  our  Unen- 
lightened Friend, 

If  he  has  the  Cheap  Book  habit,  nothing  can 
his  fate  forfend. 

'Tis  the  manner  not  the  matter  that  is  cheap- 
ened, for  there  be 

Fausts  for  thirty-seven  cents  and  Rubdiydts  for 
twenty-three. 

And  the  Average  Reader  buys  them  at  a  large 
Department  Store, 

Next  day  delivered  carriage  free  at  his  subur- 
ban door. 

43 


BAUBLES 

But  what  is  this  to  us?     What  boots  it  with 

incessant  care 
To  try  to  change  the  leopard's  spots?     It  isn't 

our  aflfair. 

And  if  our  neighbour's  cheapened  books  are 

cheapening  his  cheap  brain, 
It  only  proves  all  efforts  to  reform  him  would 

be  vain. 

We  Enlightened  will  continue  as  of  yore  to  buy 

our  books, 
Not  The  Handy  Gimcrack  Series,  nor  Editions 

de  luxe; 

But  with  calm  discrimination  we  will  buy  the 

books  we  need, 
And  our  brains  will  not  be  cheapened  as  ab- 

sorbedly  we  read. 


44 


THE  ANNUAL  SENTENCE 

COCIETY  in  wig  and  gown 
^     Sat  in  the  judge's  place, 
Tiie  sternest  kind  of  legal  frown 
Upon  her  charming  face. 

She  sadly  shook  her  pretty  head: 
"On  account  of  their  wicked  ways, 

The  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil,"  she  said. 
"Are  sentenced  for  forty  days!" 


45 


A  BALLADE  OF  INDIGNATION 

^^JOW  if  there  is  one  thing  I  hate 
•^  ^      It  is  lame  vers  de  societe, 
And  I  cannot  help  feeling  irate 

With  the  versemongers  writing  to-day. 

They  rhyme  a  thing  any  old  way, 
They  regard  neither  science  nor  schools; 

But  when  the  French  Forms  they  essay, 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

They  consider  themselves  "up-to-date" 

If  they've  written  a  Sonnet  to  May, 
And  fancy  they  feel  on  their  pate 

A  chaplet  of  laurel  or  bay. 

At  a  triolet  or  virelai 
They  rush,  like  proverbial  fools, — 

But  in  their  wild,  wordy  display 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

In  their  ignorance  boldly  elate, 
To  rhymes  no  attention  they  pay; 

They  ride  at  a  rollicking  gait 
On  a  Pegasus  madly  astray. 
46 


A   BALLADE   OF   INDIGNATION 

No  hindrance  their  progress  will  stay, 
No  remonstrance  their  mad  ardour  cools, — 

But  in  their  syllabic  array 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 


L'ENVOI 

Calliope,  pardon,  I  pray. 
These  workmen  without  any  tools, 

And  to  them  this  message  convey: 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 


47 


MY  FAMILIAR 

np  HERE'S  a  little  Lincoln  Devil  that  hangs 
-*■  above  my  desk, 

An  ugly,  yellow  plaster  imp,  exceedingly  gro- 
tesque, 

But  a  human,  real  intelligence  in  his  weird  face 
I  see. 

And  a  subtle  sympathy  exists  between  my  imp 
and  me. 

He's  a  grinning,  graceless  rascal,  like  Kipling's 
Gunga  Din, 

And  he  has  a  sense  of  humour  that  is  mar- 
vellously keen; 

He  hears  gravely  all  my  joking,  and  then  when 
I  have  done. 

He  seems  to  shake  his  shaggy  sides,  convulsed 
with  silent  fun. 

I  confide  to  him  my  secret  woes,  reveal  to  him 

my  grief. 
For  somehow,  from  his  elfish  eyes  he's  sure  to 

blink  relief; 

48 


MY    FAMILIAR 

All  my  highest   aspirations   and   my  fondest 

hopes  I  bring, 
For  he  hears  me  with  a  thoughtful  gaze  that's 

most  encouraging. 

1  acknowledge  my  shortcomings,  and  he  scowls 
in  glum  reproof, 

As  with  his  lean  and  horny  claws  he  grips  his 
cloven  hoof. 

And  then  the  day  my  heart  broke, — when  I 
told  ft  all  to  him 

A  sort  of  yearning  tenderness  stole  o'er  his  fea- 
tures grim; 

But  the  dogged,  brave  endurance  of  his  fixed 
and  stony  stare, 

His  hard-drawn  mouth  and  firm-set  teeth,  said 
only,  "Grin  and  bear!" 

So  I  love  my  little  Devil,  for  he'll  help  me  win 
the  strife. 

With  his  comprehensive  grasp  of  the  philoso- 
phy of  life. 


49 


A  BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS 
BURDENS 

'T^HE   burden   of  gay   greeting.     Vain   de- 
-■■  light,— 

For  who  among  us  means  a  word  we  say? 
In  hackneyed  speech  we  clothe  our  message 
trite, 

And  idly  voice  the  wishes  of  the  day. 

We  smile  and  bow  in  our  accustomed  way. 
While  our  indifference  we  try  to  hide, 

Stifling  our  boredom,  striving  to  be  gay — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  much  giving.     Every  year 
We  realise  anew  the  fearful  fraud 

This  custom  is.  And  then,  albeit  we  sneer, 
We  buy  afresh  the  bauble  and  the  gaud. 
Hoping  thereby  to  win  a  hollow  laud, 

Or  gain  a  compliment  to  feed  our  pride; 
Contented  if  the  giddy  world  applaud — 

This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide, 
so 


A  BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS  BURDENS 

The  burden  of  scant  shekels.    Woe  impends 
The  wight  whose  way  is  with  this  danger 
fraught; 
Lured  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Times  he  spends 
More  than  he  meant  to  and  more  than  he 

ought. 
And  when  he  views  the  gew-gaws  he  has 
bought, 
And  sees  his  empty  pockets  yawning  wide, 

He  sadly  bows  his  head  in  anxious  thought — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  swift  shopping.   Crowded  streets 

And  rushing  messengers  our  way  impede. 
Our  innocence  the  wily  fakir  cheats. 

And  fleeces  us,  weak  victims  to  his  greed; 

Or  haply  haughty  clerks  pay  us  no  heed; 
At  our  approach  they  partly  turn  aside 

Until  our  ire  our  patience  doth  exceed — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  great  eating.     Other  days 

It  matters  not  so  much  how  we  may  dine; 
But  at  this  festival  tradition  says 

We  must  bestir,  and  kill  the  fatted  kine. 
The  board  must  groan  'neath  rarest  food  and 
wine. 

SI 


BAUBLES 

Boar's  head  and  wassail  bowl  we  must  provide, 

That  our  digestion  we  may  undermine — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 


ENVOY 

Comrades,   and  ye  who  Christmas  pleasures 
seek. 
These  timely  thoughts  to  you  I  would  con- 
fide; 
Hearken  unto  the  wisdom  that  I  speak: 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 


52 


T 


THE  POSTER  GIRL 

HE  blessed  Poster  Girl  leaned  out 

From  a  pinky-purple  heaven; 

One  eye  was  red  and  one  was  green; 

Her  bangs  were  cut  uneven; 
She  had  three  fingers  on  her  hand, 

And  the  hairs  on  her  head  were  seven. 


Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 
No  sunflowers  did  adorn; 

But  a  heavy  Turkish  portiere 
Was  very  neatly  worn; 

And  the  hat  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow,  like  canned  corn. 

It  was  a  kind  of  wobbly  wave 
That  she  was  standing  on. 

And  high  aloft  she  flung  a  scarf 
That  must  have  weighed  a  ton. 

And  she  was  rather  tall, — at  least 
She  reached  up  to  the  sun. 
53 


BAUBLES 

She  curved  and  writhed,  and  then  she  said, 
Less  green  of  speech  than  blue: 

"Perhaps  I  am  absurd — perhaps 
I  don't  appeal  to  you; 

But  my  artistic  worth  depends 
Upon  the  point  of  view." 

I  saw  her  smile,  although  her  eyes 

Were  only  smudgy  smears; 
And  then  she  swished  her  swirling  arms, 

And  wagged  her  gorgeous  ears. 
She  sobbed  a  blue-and-green  checked  sob, 

And  wept  some  purple  tears. 


54 


SONNET  ON  THE  SONNET  ON 
THE  SONNET 

\\r  HAT  is  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet?     Well, 
'  ^        It  is  a  bit  of  verbal  filigree, 
A  mass  of  metaphor  and  simile, 

A  little  wooden  poem  made  to  sell. 

What  does  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet  tell? 
It  murmurs  of  the  murmurs  of  the  sea, 
Or  buzzes  of  the  buzzing  of  the  bee, 

Or  tinkles  of  the  tinkling  of  a  bell. 

Why  is  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet  writ  ? 

Forsooth,  he  deems  that  he  a  boon  confers 
Who  paints  the  lily  or  pure  gold  refines; 
And  so  the  writer  glories  in  his  wit. 
And  calls  himself  a  poet;  yet  he  errs: 
He  gives  us  only  fourteen  prosy  lines. 


55 


SPRING'S  REVENGE 


"C^ATHER  TIME  in  his  office  was  sitting, 
^      When  he  happened  to  spy 

A  calendar  nigh. 
"Goodness  me!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  I'm  flit- 
ting— 
My  days  are  just  scurrying  by! 

"The  world  has  used  up  the  whole  winter, 
And  demands  the  next  stage 
At  the  turn  of  the  page; 
I  declare,  one  must  be  a  real  sprinter 
To  keep  up  with  the  pace  of  this  age. 
56 


SPRING'S    REVENGE 

"Here,  Spring,  get  your  garlands  and  flowers; 
With  laughter  and  mirth 
You  must  skip  down  to  earth, 

Take  plenty  of  sunshine  and  showers. 
And  hurry  for  all  you  are  worth." 

Then  said  Spring,  with  a  pout  of  unreason, 

"Oh,  please,  Father  dear. 

Let  me  off  just  this  year; 
I  hate  the  Earth  more  every  season,  . 
It's  a  silly,  absurd  little  sphere!" 


BAUBLES 

"Why,  my  child,"  said  old  Father  Time,  frown- 
ing, 
"They  are  waiting,  you  know, 
And  of  course  you  must  go. 
The  poets  their  Queen  would  be  crowning. 
What  on  Earth  has  offended  you  so?" 

"Spring  odes,  lays,  and  ballads  they  fashion; 
I've  known  one  man  to  pen 
As  many  as  ten ! 
And  I  vow" — here  she  flew  in  a  passion — 
"I  never  will  go  there  again!" 

"Well,  of  course  you  can't  help  their  admir- 
ing," 
Said  Time,  looking  wise, 
"So  I  would  advise 
That  you  travel  incog.,  by  attiring 
Yourself  in  some  sort  of  disguise." 

"Oh,  Time,  what  a  clever  suggestion! 
'Tis  the  very  best  thing," 
Exclaimed  giddy  young  Spring. 
"Now  what  shall  1  wear? — that's  the  question. 
When  my  merry  way  earthward  I  wing. 
58 


SPRING'S     REVENGE 


"Here's  a  snow  robe  of  Winter's,  that's  jolly; 
I'll  take  it  to  wear, 
And  I'll  stick  in  my  hair 
Some  mistletoe  sprays  and  some  holly — 
They'll  never  know  me,  I  declare!" 


BAUBLES 

"Come,   come,"   said   old  Time,    "you  must 
hurry, 
'Tis  Feb.  28, 
March  1  is  your  date. 
And  I'm  in  a  sad  state  of  worry, 

For  I  am  morally  sure  you'll  be  late." 


c^r^i 


ryye^soJ^ 


60 


SPRING'S     REVENGE 

"All  right,"  answered  Spring,  "I  am  going." 
Her  mantle  she  drew 
Around  her  and  flew 
Down   to    Earth,    where    'twas   blowing    and 
snowing — 
She  crept  in  and  nobody  knew. 


6x 


A  BALLADE  OF  PETITION 

"The  Blue  Skalallatoot  stories  are  all  morning 
stories" — (RuDYARD  Kipling) 

pRINCE  of  the  Pen,  your  work  comprises 

-*•       Love  and  Glory  and  Fame  and  Gore, 

Your  versatile  genius  authorises 

The  babble  of  babes  and  the  jungle  roar, 
Tales  you  tell  of  the  crew  and  corps, 

The  old  official  and  young  recruit; 

We've  read  all  these,  and  we  beg  for  more- 

We  want  the  Blue  Slcalallatoot. 

The  weird  name  baffles  all  surmises. 

Its  strange  uncertainty  we'd  explore; 
For  ever  the  heart  of  man  despises 

The  mysteries  he  has  solved  before; 

We  only  delve  for  the  hidden  ore. 
We  crave  unknown,  not  forbidden  fruit; 

Give  us  the  treasure  you  have  in  store, 
We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 
62 


A    BALLADE    OF    PETITION 

Tell  us,  we  pray,  what  his  shape  and  size  is, 

Did  he  reside  on  the  sea  or  shore? 
Recount  his  exciting  enterprises, 

Tell  what  he  lived  on  and  what  he  wore; 

Over  his  story  we  fain  would  pore, 
Sharpen  your  quill  or  tune  your  lute; 

In  verse  or  story  or  old  folk-lore 
We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 


L'ENVOI 

Kipling,  we've  read  your  tales  of  yore, 
How     Bagheera     growled     and     Mulvaney 
swore. 

Now  whether  he's  Man  or  Thing  or  Brute, 

We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 


63 


CUPID'S  FAILURE 

/^^UPID  one  day,  in  idle  quest, 
^^     Fitted  a  dainty  dart 

And  aimed  it  at  Priscilla's  breast, 
To  strike  Priscilla's  heart. 

Clean  through  it  went,  no  heart  was  there; 

Said  Cupid,  "I  believe 
Priscilla's  just  the  girl  to  wear 

Her  heart  upon  her  sleeve." 

But  there,  alack!  it  was  not  found; 

"Aha!"  cried  Cupid,  "note 
Her  frightened  air;  now  I'll  be  bound 

Her  heart  is  in  her  throat." 

Failure  again.    On  slender  chance 

He  one  more  arrow  shoots; 
Assuming  from  her  downcast  glance 

Her  heart  is  in  her  boots. 

Foiled,  Cupid  threw  aside  his  bow; 

"She  has  no  heart,"  said  he. 
(He  did  not  know  that  long  ago 

She  gave  her  heart  to  me.) 
64 


THE  CELEBRANTS 

'IXT'ITH  a  shout  of  joy  the  rocket  stars 
^^       Shot  up  through  the  evening  air, 
Triumphantly  they  reached  the  sky, 

And  the  stars  of  God  were  there. 
"Make  way!"  the  rocket  stars  cried  out, 

"Make  way,  and  give  us  place: 
We  have  a  mission  to  perform, 

We've  travelled  leagues  of  space. 
We're  sent  up  here  to  celebrate 

A  glorious  country's  birth — 
Make  way!    But  a  moment  we  can  stay. 

Ere  we  die  and  fall  to  earth." 

Then  spake  the  old  and  kindly  stars: 

"Ye  be  bright,  oh,  rocket-spawn. 
But  we  are  here  since  the  morning  stars 

Sang  at  Creation's  dawn. 
By  the  Master  Hand  we  were  hurled  on  high 

To  celebrate  the  Day. 
We,  too,  but  shine  for  the  moment.  Time, 

And  then  we  fade  for  aye. 
But  have  your  way,  oh,  tiny  sparks. 

And  while  ye  may,  shine  on." 
Ere  the  kindly  voices  ceased  to  speak, 

The  rocket  stars  were  gone. 
65 


"THEY  THAT  GO  DOWN  TO 
THE  SEA  IN  SHIPS" 

/^^OME  with  the  rest  of  us 
^^^     Down  to  the  sea! 

There  is  where  we 
Show  out  the  best  of  us. 

Holiday  keep, 
Chums  with  the  waves; 

When  saucy  winds  sing, 
All  of  our  cares 

Back  to  them  fling; 
Doldrums,  despairs 

Burying  deep 
In  the  upspringing  caves. 

Come  then  with  me, 

Down  to  the  sea, 

Down  to  the  sea. 

'Neath  the  sun  blinking, 

All  the  forenoon 
On  deck  1  lie, 

And  look  without  shrinking 
66 


THEY  THAT  GO  DOWN  TO  THE  SEA" 

My  soul  in  the  eye, 

Hearing  the  croon 
Of  wandering  waves 

That  have  lost  their  way; 

Then  a  dashing  of  spray, 

Like  all  April  let  loose. 
Now  daring  the  braves. 

Now  calling  a  truce. 
Then  under  our  view 
Grey  melts  to  blue. 
Blue  hardens  to  grey. 
Oh,  what  a  day! 
Is  there  such  thing  as 

Sorrow  or  age? 
Is  there  such  sting  as 

Rancour  or  rage? 

How  much  he  misses 

Who  knows  not  the  sea! 
Its  lingering  kisses 

Are  salt  on  our  lips — 

How  the  boat  skips, 
Dipping  and  scooping! 

Here  is  a  sight, 

Here  is  delight 
Out  of  all  whooping! 
67 


BAUBLES 

Vogue-Ia-gal6re, 

Devil-may-care, 

We  know  the  Master-Word, 

We  have  its  summons  heard. 

Come  then  with  me 

Down  to  the  sea, 

Down  to  the  sea. 


68 


A  MAIDEN'S  NO 

Maidens  turn  their  heads  away. 
Meaning  yes,  and  saying  nay. 

— Old  Song. 

[HE  thought  to  mask  her  heart  from  me 
With  jest  and  laughter  gay; 

I  knew  she  loved  me  by  her  glance 
(She  looked  the  other  way). 

I  sent  her  roses,  begging  she 

Would  wear  them.    The  coquette 

Told  me  she  loved  me  by  her  choice 
(She  wore  some  mignonette) . 

And  when  a  rival  claimed  my  waltz, 

By  her  capricious  whim 
She  plainly  showed  she  cared  for  me 

(She  gave  the  dance  to  him). 

She  loved  me  well;  and  one  fair  night 

I  asked  her  if  'twere  so; 
I  knew  it  by  her  whispered  word 

(She  softly  murmured  "No"). 
69 


THE  ORIGINAL  SUMMER  GIRL 


A  FTER  much  biologic  research, 
"^  *■     From  evidence  strong,  I  believe 
That  I  have  found  out 
Beyond  shadow  of  doubt 
That  the  first  Summer  Girl  was  Eve. 


She  had  unconventional  ways, 

She  lived  out-of-doors,  and  all  that; 
She  was  tanned  by  the  sun 
Until  brown  as  a  bun, 
For  she  roamed  'round  without  any  hat. 

To  a  small  garden-party  she  went. 

Where  the  men  were  exceedingly  few; 

But  she  captured  a  mate 

And  settled  her  fate. 
As  often  these  Summer  Girls  do. 

Now,  my  statement  of  course  I  have  proved. 
But  as  evidence  that  isn't  all; 
A  Summer  Girl  she 
Is  conceded  to  be 
Because  she  stayed  there  till  the  Fall. 
70 


THE  DEBUTANTE 

npHERE'S  a  new  heart  awaiting  a  tenant; 
■*•       To  whom  shall  its  portals  unclose  ? 
Dan  Cupid  is  flying  his  pennant 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

This  heart  is  not  offered  for  selling, 

The  owner  all  freely  bestows 
A  hostelry  fit  for  Love's  dwelling, 

At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

There's  a  happy  smile  caught  in  her  dimple, 

That  only  a  debutante  shows; 
And  chatter  is  guileless  and  simple 

At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

She's  pleased  with  the  veriest  trifles. 
No  artful  bewitchment  she  knows; 

But  Cupid  a  sigh  or  two  stifles 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 
71 


BAUBLES 

And,  indeed,  the  poor  fellow  has  reason, 
As  he  thinks  of  the  long  string  of  beaux 

Who'll  successively  stop  for  a  season 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 


73 


I 


BALLADE  OF  WISDOM  AND 
FOLLY 

(A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN) 

STUDY  wise  themes  with  rigid  care, 

Logic  and  law  and  philosophy, 
Sermons  and  science,  and  I  declare 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  when  I  read  with  a  lively  glee 
Rollicking  tales  of  fun  and  mirth, 

I  laugh  to  myself,  and  I  clearly  see 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

To  copy  the  masters  I  oft  repair, — 

Of  Rubens  and  Rembrandt  a  devotee; 
I  study  line  and  school  with  care, — 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

Then  I  see  a  sketch  in  a  lighter  key, 
Ah,  line  and  school  were  never  worth 

This  little  French  bit  of  frivolity, — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

72 


BAUBLES 

I  know  a  girl  who  is  calm  and  fair, 

Of  ancient  and  noble  pedigree; 
She's  wise  and  learned  beyond  compare,- 

Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  another  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 
Without  her,  life  were  a  dreary  dearth; 

Ficlcle  and  foolishly  fond  is  she, — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 


L'ENVOI 

Prince,  I  am  sure  you  must  agree 
Wisdom's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 
But  ever  I'll  give  it  the  widest  berth, — 
Folly's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 


74 


I 


A  POSSIBILITY 

ONLY  kissed  her  hand; 
Is  that  why  Lisette  dislikes  me? 
I  cannot  understand — 
1  only  kissed  her  hand, 
I  deserved  a  reprimand; — 

But  another  notion  strikes  me, 
1  only  kissed  her  hand; 

Is  that  why  Lisette  dislikes  me? 


75 


A  MEMORY 

TTOW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  old-fash- 
•*■  ■*•  ioned  dresses, 

When  fond   recollection  presents  them  to 
view! 
In  fancy  I  see  the  old  wardrobes  and  presses 
Which  held  the  loved  gowns  that  in  girlhood 
I  knew. 
The  wide-spreading  mohair,  the  silk  that  hung 
by  it; 
The  straw-coloured  satin  with  trimmings  of 
brown; 
The  ruffled  foulard,  the  pink  organdy  nigh  it; 
But,  oh!  for  the  pocket  that  hung  in  each 
gown! 
The  old-fashioned   pocket,   the   obsolete 

pocket, 
The   praiseworthy   pocket   that   hung   in 
each  gown. 

That  dear  roomy  pocket  I'd  hail  as  a  treasure, 
Could  I  but  behold  it  in  gowns  of  to-day; 
76 


A     MEMORY 

I'd  find  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
But   all   my   modistes   sternly   answer   me 
"Nay!" 
'Twould   be   so   convenient   when   going   out 
shopping, 
Twould  hold  my  small  purchases  coming 
from  town; 
And  always  my  purse  or  my  kerchief  I'm  drop- 
ping— 
Oh,  me!  for  the  pocket  that  hung  in  my 
gown! 
The  old-fashioned   pocket,   the  obsolete 

pocket. 
The   praiseworthy  pocket   that   hung  in 
my  gown. 

A  gown  with  a  pocket!    How  fondly  I'd  guard 
it! 
Each  day  ere  I'd  don  it,  I'd  brush  it  with 
care; 
Not  a  full  Paris  costume  could  make  me  dis- 
card it. 
Though  trimmed  with  the  laces  an  Empress 
might  wear. 
But  I  have  no  hope,  for  the  fashion  is  ban- 
ished ; 

n 


BAUBLES 

The  tear  of  regret  will  my  fond   visions 
drown; 
As  fancy  reverts  to  the  days  that  have  vanished, 
I  sigh  for  the  pocket  that  hung  in  my  gown. 
The   old-fashioned   pocket,   the   obsolete 

pocket. 
The   praiseworthy   pocket   that   hung  in 
my  gown. 


78 


ON  MEETING  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

T  WANDERED,  wondering,  through  Italy, 

-*■  Through  aureate  orchards,  riotous  with 
trees. 

One  to  another  draped  with  grapery. 

I  saw  far  hills,  by  daedal  sunsets  backed; 

And  skies  that  grasped  and  held  my  helpless 
gaze; 

And  poppies,  popping  up  continual. 

And  here  and  there,  I  stumbled  on  a  town; 

Rome,  Florence,  Venice, — names  I'd  heard  be- 
fore,— 

And  in  the  towns  were  statues  several. 

And  pleasing  pictures,  much  to  be  admired, 

And  architecture  of  the  braver  sort. 

Then  came  I  unto  Milan.    Lo!  I  found 

Not  the  Cathedral, — not  da  Vinci's  feat, — 

Those  quickly  sank  to  nothingness  beside 

The  Treasure  of  the  city.     For  I  saw 

In  some  Hotel- like  place,  a  rocking-chair! 

Yea,  verily,  a  real  rocking-chair! 

It  was  bow-legged,  floppy  as  to  arms, 

79 


BAUBLES 

Of  a  strange  balance  and  uncertain  pitch; 
It  threw  one  out  as  fast  as  one  got  in, — 
But  still  a  rocking-chair.     I  held  my  breath. 
How  came  this  alien  on  this  foreign  shore.? 
This  coal,  so  far  from  any  Newcastle  ? 
This  fish,  out  of  its  Hquid  element? 
This  cat,  in  garret  so  exceeding  strange? 
This  pearl,  cast  before —  (No,  that's  not  po- 
lite.) 
I  mused,  and  ruminated  as  1  mused. 
But  found  no  answer. 

Now,  I  reminisce. 
And,  lolling  in  Italian  memories, 
I  idly  dream.    But  ever  far  above 
All  other  architecture,  other  art. 
Paramount  looms  that  Milan  rocking-chair! 


80 


A 


AN  AQUARELLE 

MERMAID,  people  sometimes  think, 
Has  nothing  else  to  do 
But  to  sit  on  the  rocks 
And  comb  her  locks 
The  livelong  summer  through. 


But  I  will  tell  you  of  Mermaid  Smith, 
And  I'll  tell  you  of  Mermaid  Brown, 
Who  would  oft  dispense 
O'er  the  garden  fence 
The  gossip  of  the  town. 

On  summer  mornings.  Mermaid  Smith 
With  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 

And  Mermaid  Brown 

In  a  calico  gown 
And  a  sun-bonnet  striped  with  red. 

At  their  garden  gate  for  an  hour  or  more 
Would  loiter  with  idle  fins. 
The  little  twirls 
Of  their  golden  curls 
Done  up  in  crimping-pins. 
8i 


BAUBLES 

And  Mermaid  Brown  would  tell  Mermaid  Smith 

How  her  jellyfish  wouldn't  jell; 

It  had  simmered  and  boiled, 
Till  she  feared  it  was  spoiled. 

Said  Mermaid  Smith,  "Do  tell!" 

And  Mermaid  Smith  had  trouble  too. 
She  had  set  her  sponge  to  rise, 
And  it  hadn't  riz. 
"What  a  shame  that  is!" 
Said  Mermaid  Brown  with  sighs. 

Then  perhaps  they'd  discuss  Miss  Lorelei  Green 

Who  disappeared  one  day; 

With  a  gay  sea-urchin. 

While  her  parents  were  searchin'. 

She  wickedly  ran  away. 

And  the  two  good  fishwives  deeply  sighed, 
And  expressed  a  heartfelt  wish 

That  both  of  their  daughters 

In  calm,  placid  waters 
Should  attend  a  polite  school  of  fish. 

Then  one  would  say,  "This  won't  do  for  me! 
It's  time  my  work  began." 

82 


AN    AQUARELLE 

"And  I  must  away," 
The  other  would  say, 
"I've  some  ocean  currents  to  can." 

And  so  the  Mermaids,  as  you  see, 
Are  very  much  like  us; 

A  little  work, 

A  little  shirk, 
A  little  fluster  and  fuss. 


83 


IN  ABSENCE 

(A  RONDEAU) 

f\^  Christmas  Day  as  far  and  near 
^^     The  bells  ring  out  their  message  clear, 
Your  thoughts  will  turn  to  me,  I  know, 
And  mine  to  you  as  swift  will  go. 
To  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  dear. 

And  those  whom  you  may  see  and  hear 
Will  not  give  greeting  more  sincere 
Than  this  I  send  across  the  snow 
On  Christmas  Day. 

Amid  the  mirth  and  merry  cheer 
Of  this  glad  time  that  crowns  the  year, 
Haply  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
I'll  shyly  whisper,  sweet  and  low, 
A  soft  je  t'aime  just  for  your  ear. 
On  Christmas  Day. 
84 


FROM  VIVETTE'S  MILKMAID 

A    MAYDE  ther  was,  semely  and  meke  enow, 
-*-  ^      She  sate  a-milken  of  a  Purpil  Cowe: 
Rosy  hire  Cheke  as  is  the  Month  of  Maye, 
And  sikerly  her  merry  Songe  was  gay 
As  of  the  Larke  uprist,  washen  in  Dewe. 
Like  Shene  of  Sterres  sperkled  hire  Eyen  two. 
Now  came  ther  by  that  Way  a  hendy  Knight, 
The  Mayde  espien  in  morwening  Light. 
A  faire  Person  he  was,  of  Corage  trewe. 
With  lusty  Berd  and  Chekes  of  rody  Hewe: 
Dere  Ladye    (quod   he),   far  and   wide   I've 

straied, 
Uncouthe  Aventure  in  strange  Contree  made, 
Fro  Berwike  unto  Ware.     Parde  I  vowe 
Erewhiles  I  never  sawe  a  Purpil  Cowe! 
Fayn  wold  I  knowe  how  Catel  thus  can  be? 
Tel  me,  I  praie  you,  of  yore  Courtesie! 
The  Mayde  hire  Milken  stent. — Goode  Sir,  she 

saide. 
The  Master's  mandement  on  us  ylaid 
Decrees  that  in  these  yclept  Gilden  Houres 
Hys  Kyne  shall  ete  of  nought  but  Vylet  Floures. 
8s 


A  WOMAN'S  WAIL 

TTT'HY  do  I  wear  a  veil? 
^^       Tis  of  no  use, 
Tis  always  fetching  loose, 
A  plaything  of  the  winds,  that  takes  delight 
In  ever  being  wrong  and  never  right. 
Though  of  my  costume  'tis  a  chief  detail, 
It  maices  me  fret  and  fume  and  fuss  and  rail. 
This  veil! 

I  cannot  get  it  off  when  it  is  on. 
And  once  I  doff  it,  then  I  cannot  don. 
Why  do  I  wear  it?     'Tis  a  nuisance  great, 
Beyond  all  words  to  state. 
And  an  expense 
Immense! 

This  wretched,  flimsy  veil! 
It  is  so  frail, 

To-day  I  buy  a  new  one,  and,  behold. 
To-morrow  it  is  old! 
Forth  to  the  shops  then  angrily  I  hie 
Another  veil  to  buy. 
On  every  side  I  see  rare  bargain  sales, 
86 


A    WOMAN  'S    WAIL 

But  not  of  veils. 
And  so  I  pay  an  awful  price, 
For  I  must  have  it  nice; 
With  knots, 
Or  spots, 

Or  tiny  polka  dots; 
Or  simple  plain  illusion.     But  of  such 
I  bu}'^  six  times  as  much. 
And  so, 
You  know. 

The  cost  is  just  as  great. 
Oh,  how  I  hate 
A  veil! 

Do  you  suppose 

I  like  to  feel  it  rubbing  'gainst  my  nose? 
Forever  catching  on  my  eyelash  tips. 
Persistently  adhering  to  my  lips, 
The  while  the  ill-dyed  blackness  of  its  lace 
Makes  grimy  smudges  on  my  face. 
Or  if  the  veil  be  white, 
Itself  it  smudges  till  it  is  a  sight! 
Why  do  I  wear  it? 
Why? 

It  is  a  crime  thus  daily  to  enwrap 
One's  self  in  such  a  microbe-trap! 
Death  and  disease  lurk  hidden  in  its  curves. 
87 


BAUBLES 

A  pest!    A  bane!    A  blot  upon  our  sex, 

Just  made  to  vex 

A  burdened  woman's  overburdened  nerves. 

Oh,  Fashion,  hear  my  wail! 

Or  is  my  plea  to  go  without  a  veil 

Without  avail? 


88 


THE  DISCRIMINANT 

f~^  IVE  me  no  colonial  novel,  give  me  no  best- 

^^         selling  screed, 

For  I'm  told  Emotional  Studies  are  the  only 

things  to  read, — 
Questions  of  the  Inner  Ego  by  some  stylish 

woman  writ; 
Analytic  introspection  of  capacities  is  It. 

Morbider  than  Henry  James's,  capabler  than 
Meredith's, 

See  the  Elementary  Heroines  struggling  like 
Hellenic  myths! 

Oh,  the  joy  of  knowing  surely  how  an  elemen- 
tal mind 

Is  affected  by  emotion  of  an  elemental  kind! 

Oh,  the  deep  delight  of  learning  just  what's 
psychically  true, 

By   impressive   demonstration   from    a   subtle 
point  of  view! 

What  extraordinary  insights  and  reactions  most 
complex 

89 


BAUBLES 

Follow  elemental  kisses  from  the  elemental 
sex. 

And  ecstasy  unspeakable  through  simple  souls 
is  sent 

When  the  psychical  and  physical  are  nebulous- 
ly blent. 

And  how  deeply  we  Discriminating  Readers 
have  enjoyed 

The  poetry  of  th'  Impalpable  effectively  em- 
ployed. 

So  give  me  no  more  novels  of  historical  import, 
No  frivolous  romances  of  a  wishy-washy  sort; 
No   stories  of  adventure   or  tales   of   hidden 

crime, 
For  on  these  themes  Discriminating  Persons 

waste  no  time. 

And  though  my  baser  nature  all  longingly  may 
look 

Toward  Howells's  new  novel  or  Kipling's  lat- 
est book; 

Though  in  a  thoughtless  moment  it  seems  to 
me  I'd  like 

To  read  of  Tommy's  Grizel  or  of  Stringtown 
on  the  Pike; 

90 


THE    DISCRIMINANT 

Such  desires  I  sternly  banish,  for  I'm  bound,  at 

any  rate — 
In  my  fictional  selection  I  will  discriminate; 
And  nothing  written  shall  my  literary  palate 

please 
But  a  Psychic  Impressivity  in  subtle  harmonies. 


91 


TRANSCENDENCE 

DEAR  HEART,  although  Ambition's  trum- 
pet-call 
Arouses  thee  in  triumph  to  respond; 
Remember  that  its  guerdon  is  not  all, — 
I  am  beyond. 

Dear  Heart,  though  Love  and  Passion  beckon 
thee. 
And  charm  thee  with  alluring  cadence  fond; 
Bethink  thee  in  their  highest  ecstasy, 
I  am  beyond. 

Dear  Heart,  when  grief  and  sorrow  bow  thee 
low, 
And  hold  thee  in  a  grim  and  silent  bond, — 
Though  to  their  farthest  confines  thou  mayst 
go, 

1  am  beyond. 


92 


PERSONAL  IMPRESSIONS  OF 
TEXAS 


O 


UR  Texas  is  a  noble  State, 
It's  very  big,  it's  very  great. 
Its  area  (I  think  I've  heard) 
Is  bigger  by  almost  a  third 
Than  England,  France  and  part  of  Spain! 
(Or,  maybe,  that's  the  size  of  Maine.) 

But  anyway,  from  side  to  side. 
The  State  of  Texas  is  quite  wide. 
The  people  there  are  fierce  and  bold ; 
They  live  in  ranches,  I  am  told. 
They  gallop  wildly  o'er  the  plain. 
Then  swiftly  gallop  back  again. 

The  Texas  plain  is  very  vast, 
And  so  they  have  to  gallop  fast. 
Some  Texans  have  quite  breezy  manners 
And  wear  sombreros  and  bandannas; 
And  some  have  black  mustachios 
And  wear  eccentric  evening  clothes. 

93 


BAUBLES 

Perfectly  awful  words  they  say, 
And  go  out  shooting  every  day. 
They  shoot  most  any  one  they  see, 
And  scowl  and  frown  ferociously. 
The  rolling  prairies,  it  would  seem, 
Are  vast  and  spacious  in  extreme. 

The  prairie  grass  is  known  as  lush; 
Across  the  prairies  cattle  rush. 
The  scenery  is  pretty  fine, — 
The  foothills  rise  in  broken  line. 
The  red  gold  sun  sinks  to  its  rest 
Adown  the  glowing,  lighted  West. 

The  twilight  falls,  the  stars  peep  out. 
The  ranchers  grandly  pose  about, — 
What  happens  next  I  cannot  tell, 
Because  just  there  the  curtain  fell. 
You  see,  I've  only  seen  in  plays 
These  Texan  scenes  and  Texan  ways. 

But  I've  no  doubt  that  every  act 
Is  founded  on  authentic  fact. 


94 


A  PICTURE 

'T^HE  hollyhock  lifts  its  flowery  torch, 
-*•        The  meadow  is  starred  with  daisies  fair; 
The  roses  clamber  about  the  porch, 
And  bees  swing  by  with  an  idle  air. 

On  the  hillside  linger  the  sheep  sedate, 
Down  in  the  fields  are  the  lowing  kine; 

A  maiden  stands  by  the  farmhouse  gate 

Embowered  by  the  sprays  of  a  framing  vine. 

A  bird-note  trills  through  the  sunny  sky; 

A  rustic  swain  comes  up  the  road 
With  a  merry  smile  in  his  twinkling  eye. 

As  he  guides  his  ox-team's  heavy  load. 

But  what  does  she  care  for  his  flattering  look. 
Or  the  buzzing  bees,   or  the  cows'  sweet 
breath, 
Or  the  clustering  vine,  or  the  babbling  brook? 
She's  a  city  girl  who  is  bored  to  death. 
95 


A  PROBLEM 

np  HERE'S  a  whimsey  in  my  noddle,  there's 
"*•  a  maggot  in  my  brain, 

There's  a  doubt  upon  my  spirit  that  1  cannot 
quite  explain. 

'Tis  a  grave,  important  question  over  which  I 
vacillate, — 

Does  Enlightenment  enlighten,  and  does  Cul- 
ture cultivate  ? 

We  are  of  the  Cognoscenti,   and  intuitively 

know 
Just  the  shades  of  thoughtful  fancy  that  an 

author  ought  to  show. 

But  from  our  exalted  level  should  we  drop  a 

poisoned  hint 
To  the  placid  ones  who  wallow  in  the  sordid 

slums  of  print? 

Should  the  Unenlightened  Readers  be  sardon- 
ically hissed 

If  they  like  a  Duchess  novel  better  than  The 
Egoist  ? 

96 


A    PROBLEM 

Should  we  rare  ones  who  inhabit  the  exalted 

realms  of  thought, 
Dictate    to    the    Unenlightened    what    they 

oughtn't  or  they  ought? 

To  the  masses  should  our  classes  offer  Ibsen 

when  we  find 
Mr.  Caine  and  Miss  Corelli  better  please  the 

massy  mind? 

Should  we  shudder  to  discover  that  they  cannot 

get  the  pith 
Of  the  tenebrastic  subtleties  of  Mr.  Meredith  ? 

Should  we  rudely  contradict  them  when  they 

confidently  say, 
"Omar  wrote  The  Iliad  and  Holmes'  first  name 

was  Mary  J."? 

Or  shall  we  abandon  flatly  this  whole  altruistic 

fight. 
With  the  philosophic  dictum  that  "Whatever 

is,  is  right"? 

Then,  instead  of  wasting  time  in  teaching  oth- 
ers how  to  think, 

97 


BAUBLES 

We  can  spend  those  precious  moments  with 
Hafiz  or  Maeterlinclc. 

Let  us  stop  our  futile  task  of  pointing  to  the 

open  door, 
Let  the  Enlightened  cease  enlightening  and  the 

Cultured  cult  no  more. 


98 


THE  DEGENERATE  NOVELIST 

IDENEATH  a  sheltering  pseudonym 

-^     He  writes  those  grisly  tales  and  grim, 

That  sicken  and  depress; 
A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  aster  is  to  him, 

And  it  is  nothing  less. 


99 


HER  SPINNING-WHEEL 

TTER  spinning-wheel  she  deftly  guides, 
•■••■■     As  by  the  homely  hearth  she  bides; 

Within  a  quaint,  old  straight-backed  chair, 

A  damsel  with  a  modest  air, 
Over  the  treadle  swift,  presides. 

But  through  the  years  Time  onward  glides, 
Careless  if  good  or  ill  betides; 

Nor  win  his  ruthless  changes  spare 
Her  spinning-wheel. 

Another  cycle  he  provides, 

Though  censor  carps  and  critic  chides. 

The  modern  maid,  fearless  and  fair, 

Daintily  gay  and  debonair; 
Trimly  equipped,  triumphant  rides 
Her  spinning-wheel. 


100 


WOMAN'S  WAY 

RATHER  TIME  sat  in  his  study 
Lounging  in  tiis  easy-chair. 

Nice  old  chap,  so  hale  and  ruddy, 
With  his  long  white  beard  and  hair. 

Suddenly  unto  his  portal 

Came  a  sound  of  flying  feet — 

Prettier  than  any  mortal — 
April  entered,  fair  and  sweet. 

In  a  gown  of  primrose  yellow. 
With  a  manner  gay  and  blithe — 

"Daddy  Time,  you  dear  old  fellow!" 
Said  she,  fingering  his  scythe. 

Father  Time  looked  wisely  at  her, 
And  indulgently  he  smiled. 

"I  don't  care  to  hear  you  flatter; 
Tell  me  what  you  want,  my  child." 

lOI 


^^T^  IM3;^v^  •'•'/'■»-. 


BAUBLES 

Then  said  April,  coming  closer, 
By  the  forelock  taking  him, 

"Easter's  almost  here — and  oh,  sir, 
I've  my  Easter  hat  to  trim. 

"Such  a  pretty  Easter  bonnet — 

But,  you  see  I  really  need 
Some  spring  birds  and  posies  on  it." 

But  Time  thundered  "No,  indeed! 

"Such  audacity's  appalling! 

Birds  and  flowers  belong  to  May." 
Then  the  crystal  tears  came  falling 

(Crafty  April  knew  the  way). 

And  she  said,  though  April  showers 
Almost  drowned  her  plaintive  words, 

"Can't  I  have  a  few  small  flowers — 
And  a  half  a  dozen  birds?  " 

"There,  there!  do  not  cry,  my  poppet" 
(Time  was  just  like  other  men). 

"Don't  cry!     If  you'll  only  stop  it 
You  may  have  your  posies  then." 


WOMAN  'S    WAY 

Quick  the  tears  that  had  been  streaming 
Disappeared  and  left  no  trace. 

Soon  a  radiant  smile  was  beaming 
On  Miss  April's  lovely  face. 

And  she  had  for  her  adorning 
All  the  birds  and  blossoms  bright. 

Crowned  with  these  on  Easter  morning 
April  was  a  charming  sight. 


103 


104 


I 


HOW  TO  TELL  THE  WILD 
ANIMALS 

F  ever  you  should  go  by  chance 

To  jungles  in  the  East; 
And  if  there  should  to  you  advance 

A  large  and  tawny  beast, 
If  he  roars  at  you  as  you're  dyin' 
You'll  know  it  is  the  Asian  Lion. 

Or  if  some  time  when  roaming  round, 
A  noble  wild  beast  greets  you. 

With  black  stripes  on  a  yellow  ground, 
Just  notice  if  he  eats  you. 

This  simple  rule  may  help  you  learn 

The  Bengal  Tiger  to  discern. 

If  strolling  forth,  a  beast  you  view. 
Whose  hide  with  spots  is  peppered, 

As  soon  as  he  has  lept  on  you. 
You'll  know  it  is  the  leopard. 

'Twill  do  no  good  to  roar  with  pain. 

He'll  only  lep  and  lep  again. 
105 


BAUBLES 

If  when  you're  walking  round  your  yard, 

You  meet  a  creature  there, 
Who  hugs  you  very,  very  hard, 

Be  sure  it  is  the  Bear. 
If  you  have  any  doubt,  I  guess 
He'll  give  you  just  one  more  caress. 

Though  to  distinguish  beasts  of  prey 

A  novice  might  nonplus. 
The  Crocodiles  you  always  may 

Tell  from  Hyenas  thus. 
Hyenas  come  with  merry  smiles; 
But  if  they  weep,  they're  Crocodiles. 

The  true  Chameleon  is  small, 

A  lizard  sort  of  thing; 
He  hasn't  any  ears  at  all. 

And  not  a  single  wing. 
If  there  is  nothing  on  the  tree, 
'Tis  the  Chameleon  you  see. 


io6 


A  CHRISTMAS  PETITION 


^np  IS  Christmas  time !    Though  we  regret 
"*■       Its  many  forced  expenses, 

We  pretend  to  lilce  the  gifts  we  get, 
And  our  friends  make  like  pretenses. 

Both  for  ourselves,  be  this  our  plea, 
And  those  who  recompense  us — 

Forgive  us  our  Christmases  as  we 

Forgive  those  who  Christmas  against  us! 


107 


QUATRAIN 

VT'OUTH  throws  a  glamour  over  everything, 
-'■       Clothes  wrong  with  right,  and  veils  a  lie 

with  truth; 
But  age,  more  daring  still,  essays  to  fling 
A  glamour  over  youth. 


io8 


AN  ILLUSION 

A  N  open  periodical  I  saw  as  I  passed  by, 
-^^      And  down  the  list  of  contents  I  idly  cast 

my  eye; 
I   saw  the  queerest  title — whatever  could  it 

mean? 
"The  Literary  Spirit  in  the  Modern  Magazine!" 

I  looked  again,  and  gazed  at  it  in  utter  blank 

surprise. 
Though  I  had  read  the  words  aright,  I  scarce 

believed  my  eyes! 
For  surely  readers  will  agree  no  one  has  ever 

seen 
The  Literary  Spirit  in  the  Modern  Magazine. 

Of   terms   a   contradiction!     Of   thoughts   a 

paradox ! 
Experience  it  stultifies,   at  common  sense  it 

mocks. 
As  well  say  two  and  two  make  five,  or  that 

the  sky  is  green. 
As  the  Literary  Spirit  in  the  Modern  Magazine! 
109 


BAUBLES 

I  love  the  periodicals,  I  read  them  every  time; 
1  love  a  lightweight  story,  or  a  bit  of  senseless 

rhyme. 
But   1   never  have  discovered — although   my 

eyes  are  keen — 
The  Literary  Spirit  in  the  Modern  Magazine. 

Perhaps  there  "is"  a  fountain  that  will  give 
Immortal  Youth; 

Perpetual  motion  "may"  be  found;  in  wells 
there  "may"  be  truth. 

But  credulity  has  limits;  they  must  tell  to  some 
marine 

Of  "The  Literary  Spirit  in  the  Modern  Maga- 
zine!" 


B 


BABY'S  LAUGH 

ABY'S  face  is  like  a  flower, 
Baby's  smile's  divine; 
Baby's  hair  is  a  golden  shower, 

His  eyes  are  stars  ashine; 
Baby's  charms  all  seem  to  be 

Like  to  treasures  rare; 
But  unto  whkt  on  land  or  sea 
Can  baby's  laugh  compare? 


Like  roses  set  to  rhyme, 

Like  bluebells  all  achime, 
Like  rippling  rills,  and  tinkling  trills,  and  flow- 
ers of  sunny  clime, 

Like  bird-notes  clear  and  free, 

Like  murmurs  of  the  sea. 
Like  purling  streams,  and  happy  dreams,  is 

Baby's  laugh  to  me. 


Ill 


HER  EASTER  MORNING 

T  SAT  at  my  ease,  and  my  mind  was  at  rest, 
"^      The  holiest  feelings  were  filling  my  breast, 
For  I  knew  I  was  smartly  and  properly  dressed 
And  was  calmly  convinced  I  was  looking  my 
best; 

But  the  musical  drones, 

In  monotonous  tones, 
Sent  a  feeling  of  drowsiness  all  through  my 

bones, 
And  visions  unusual  my  senses  impressed; 
The  air  all  about  me  was  surely  possessed 

With  curious  things 

Which  soared  upon  wings. 
Or  waved  through  the  air  suspended  by  strings. 
I  thought  they  were  butterflies,  fairies,  or  bats. 
But  on  closer  inspection  they  proved  to  be  hats 
Of  every  description,  from  steeples  to  flats; 
And  though  moving  for  years  in  the  best  of 

society, 
I  never  have  seen  such  enormous  variety 

Of  cottage  and  poke, 

Of  turban  and  toque, 

112 


HER     EASTER     MORNING 

Trimmed  with  feathers  of  ostrich  and  feathers 

of  coque. 
There  were  bonnets  of  velvet  and  bonnets  of 

lace, 
For  every  occasion  and  every  place; 
Bonnets  of  silks  and  bonnets  of  satins, 
Bonnets  for  vespers  and  bonnets  for  matins. 
Bonnets  of  jet 
And  bonnets  of  net, 
Trimmed  with  every  conceivable  kind  of  ro- 
sette. 
A  Gainsborough  beaver,  with  wide  rolling  brim, 
A  demure  little  gipsy,  exceedingly  prim. 
There  were  hats  of  all  colours,  blue,  white, 

green  and  black, 
Turned  up  in  the  front  and  turned  up  in  the 

back, 
And  a  ripple-edged,  feather-trimmed,  beaded 
felt  plaque. 
And  all  of  these  hats. 
Like  a  great  swarm  of  gnats, 
The  whole  place  o'erspread. 
And  to  my  great  dread 
Each  one  seemed  determined  to  light  on  my 
head. 
I  tried  hard  to  say 

"3 


BAUBLES 

"Oh,  take  them  away," 

When  the  voice  of  a  neighbour  devoutly  im- 
plored 

At  my  side;  "We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us, 
Good  Lord." 

I  gave  a  great  start,  I  awoke  with  a  lurch — 

Twas  Easter,  and  I  had  been  sleeping  in 
church. 


114 


AN  UNWRITTEN  POEM 

TTPON  this  mossy  bank  I'll  sit,  within  this 
^  flowery  dell, — 

It  is  the  place  by  poets  most  preferred, — 
And  in  a  blithesome  ballad  I'll  poetically  tell 

"The  sentiments  of  yonder  little  bird." 

"O  poet,  spare  me!"  cried  the  bird;  "I'm  weary 
of  this  thing! 
Excuse  me  if  I  plainly  speak  my  mind ; 
But   I've  had  my  poem  taken  twenty-seven 
times  this  Spring, 
Oh,  let  me  go,  if  you  will  be  so  kind!" 

"Why,  certainly,"  the  poet  said,  "it  matters  not 
to  me. 
Another  theme  will  just  as  well  avail; 
I'll  write  a  lyric  poem  to  this  budding  apple- 
tree. 
Or  a  dithyrambic  ode,  beginning  'Hail!'  " 
"S 


BAUBLES 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  tree,  "I  pray  you 
will  desist, 
And  seek  some  other  victim,  if  you  please; 
I've  had  enough  of  'cheered  by  sun'  and  'by  the 
breezes  kist.'  " 
"I'll  write  then,"  said  the  poet,   "of  the 
breeze." 

"Nay,    poet,"   sighed   the   weary   breeze,    "it 
makes  me  very  tired 
To  'toss  the  tresses  of  the  trees'  in  rhyme; 
Already  since  the  first  of  May  twelve  poets  I've 
inspired; 
I'll  thank  you  if  you'll  let  me  oflf  this  time." 

"Don't  mention  it,  I  beg,  O  Breeze, — of  this 

fair  flow'r  I'll  speak." 

But  the  flower  answered  gaily,  "I  protest! 

I  cannot  pose  for  you;  I've  sat  for  poems  all 

the  week. 

And  I  really  think  I  ought  to  have  a  rest." 

"What  can  I  do?  "  the  poet  cried.    "Ah,  here  is 
Spring  herself. 
Goddess!  I  pray  you  grant  an  interview — 
116 


AN     UNWRITTEN     POEM 

I'll  place  you  in  the  public  eye  as  fairy,  sprite, 
or  elf. 
Or  write  a  stirring  sonnet  to  your  shoe." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  poet!"  cried  the  Spring,  "with 
that  we  can  dispense; 
Why  waste  your  time  on  haclcneyed  themes 
and  trite? 
Come,  go  a-Maying  with  us,  and  when  sun  sets 
hie  you  hence. 
And  write  about  the  song  you  didn't  write." 


"7 


THE  BOOK  LIFTER 

YOU'VE  heard  of  the  Book  Collector,  the 
•'■       Book  Lover,  the  Bookworm, 

The  Book  Maker  and  Book  Seller  too, — each 
is  a  well-known  term. 

The  "Bookman"  and  "Book  Buyer"  are  to  us  a 
real  delight. 

But  it's  of  the  bad  Book  Lifter  that  I'm  going 
for  to  write. 

His  smile  is  most  engaging,  and  he  has  a  well- 
stocked  mind. 

He's  suave  and  pleasant  spoken  and  particu- 
larly kind: 

But  I  know  his  tricks  and  manners,  and  I  trem- 
ble when  I  see 

The  odious  Book  Lifter  come  in  to  visit  me. 

He  entertains  me  with  the  latest  literary  chat. 

As  he  scans  my  newest  volumes.     Then  he 
picks  out  this  or  that, 

And  remarks  as  he  is  leaving,  with  a  manner 
so  polite: 

ii8 


THE    BOO  K    LIFTER 

"I'll  skim  this  over  hurriedly  and  send  it  back 
to-night." 

But  I  know  the  bad  Book  Lifter's  the  forget- 
fullest  of  men, 

And  I  know  that  I  shall  never  see  that  borrowed 
book  again. 

Or  perhaps,  with  much  apology,  his  case  he 
frankly  states. 

And  begs  a  book  of  reference  to  see  about 
some  dates. 

He'll  return  it  "on  the  morrow,"  but  I  feel  a 
little  glum 

O'er  a  well-defined   conviction  that  to-mor- 
row'll  never  come. 

Or  perhaps  he's  absent-minded — doesn't  know 
what  he's  about. 

When  he  pockets  a  small  volume,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, no  doubt. 

Or  he  comes  when  I  am  not  at  home,  and  says 
that  he's  a  friend 

To  whom  at  any  time  most  willingly  my  books 
I  lend. 

Then  he  enters  with  assurance  and  a  deprecat- 
ing smirk, 

And  takes  a  handsome  copy  of  an  illustrated 
work. 

119 


BAUBLES 

Or  perhaps  he  is  a  writer,  and  some  subject, 
unforeseen. 

Necessitates  the  scanning  of  a  current  maga- 
zine; 

He  has  mislaid  his  copy — will  I  kindly  lend  him 
mine? 

Of  course  in  such  emergency  I  really  can't  de- 
cline. 

Or  he  takes  the  newest  novel,  which  I  haven't 
read  myself. 

Or  volume  six  or  seven  from  a  set  upon  the 
shelf; 

Or  one  of  my  pet  classics,  or  a  rare  old  Elze- 
vir— 

And  one  by  one  I  sadly  see  my  treasures  dis- 
appear. 

I'm  powerless  to  prevent  them,  for  I  can't  be 
such  a  dunce 

As  to  seem  to  doubt  the  promise,  "This  shall 
be  returned  at  once." 

But  I  sigh  for  some  far  desert  isle  or  lonely  for- 
eign shore, 

Where  the  borrowers  cease  from  borrowing 
and  Book  Lifters  lift  no  more. 


120 


UTILITARIAN 


WHEN  Cupid  discovered  how  dull  was  his 
dart, 
He  sharpened  it  straightway  on  Phyllis's  heart. 


T2I 


UNDER  A  NEW  CHARTER 

T  TELLO!    Come  in!    I  called  you,  Cupid, 
•*•-■•     To  take  this  box.    Handle  with  care! 
Loolc  out!  don't  be  so  careless.  Stupid; 
I'd  have  you  know  my  heart's  in  there. 

Take  it  at  once,  boy,  to  Miss  Kitty, 

And  say  it  is  a  valentine. 
How  happy  she'll  look,  and  how  pretty. 

When  she  discovers  it  is  mine! 

Tell  her  for  her  my  heart  is  yearning, 
And  then,  unless  my  judgment  errs. 

By  the  same  messenger  returning 
1  rather  think  she'll  send  me  hers. 

What,  Cupid,  are  you  back  already? 

And  bringing  me  Miss  Kitty's  heart? 
Open  it  quickly!    Stay,  be  steady! 

What's  this?     A  neatly  printed  chart! 

122 


UNDER    A    NEW    CHARTER 

"No  spaces  left  at  my  disposal — 

Possibly  some  vacated  soon; 
But  I  have  filed  your  kind  proposal. 

Come  up  and  call  some  afternoon." 

And  here  her  heart  is  designated — 

What  seas  of  dreams!  what  flowery  isles! 

The  boundaries  all  distinctly  stated, 
And  measured  by  a  scale  of  smiles. 

A  large  tract's  given  to  her  poodle; 

A  smaller  one  contains  her  cat; 
Here  is  the  claim  of  Lord  Fitznoodle, 

Here  her  expensive  picture-hat. 

Here  I  observe  her  mother's  quarters; 

This  large  compartment  is  her  dad's; 
Here,  Revolutionary  Daughters, 

And  here  her  clubs  and  freaks  and  fads. 

Here  is  enshrined  her  baby  cousin, 

And  here  that  Count  with  whom  she  flirts; 
Here  are  male  tenants  by  the  dozen 

(They're  only  friends,  so  she  asserts). 
123 


BAUBLES 

This  corner's  occupied  by  Irving, 
This  by  her  pearl  and  turquoise  pin; 

Although  I  know  I  am  deserving, 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  get  in. 


124 


LEFT 

^HE  sky  is  blue,  the  sea  is  bright, 

The  waves  are  dancing  with  delight, 
The  earth  is  glad,  my  heart  is  gay. 
Sweet  Kitty  Somers  comes  this  way 

The  sky  is  dark,  the  sea  is  grey, 

It  is  a  gloomy,  doleful  day. 
The  earth  is  sad,  and  sad  am  I, 

Miss  Katharine  Somers  passed  me  by. 


125 


w 


TRIFLES 

HAT  trifles  make  our  happiness? 

An  hour  of  idle  gaiety, 
A  bit  of  worthless  flattery, 
A  far-off  promise  of  success. 


What  trifles  mar  our  happiness? 
A  novel  with  a  woeful  end, 
A  truth  from  a  plainspoken  friend, 

An  undesirable  caress. 


126 


(Qjfle 

T    OTHARIO  LEE  was  saddened,  the  world 
"■— '     seemed  grim  and  grey; 
For  Lothario  Lee  was  a  lover  bold,  and  to-day 
was  St.  Valentine's  day. 

'Twas  St.  Valentine's  day,  and  he  fain  would 
send  his  heart  to  the  fair  Florelle, 

For  the  radiant  maid  had  inspired  in  his  breast 
a  passion  he  could  not  quell. 

But  alas,  for  the  gay  Lothario,  his  heart  was 

held  in  fee, 
Down  at  Dan  Cupid's  pawnshop,  at  the  sign  of 

the  Roses  Three. 


Willingly  would  the  lovelorn  knight  that  errant 

heart  reclaim, 
But,  alas!  the  luckless  Lothario  hadn't  a  cent 

to  his  name. 

127 


BAUBLES 

So  he  sadly  sat  and  pondered,  as  doleful  as  he 

could  be; 
When  a  brilliant  notion  struck  him — "Done!" 

cried  Lothario  Lee. 


"I'll  send  her  the  pawnshop  ticket,  my  tale  of 

woe  'twill  tell, 
For  she  alone  can  redeem  my  heart, — the  rich 

and  rare  Florelle." 


He  sent  her  the  tell-tale  ticket,  he  scribbled  a 

hasty  line. 
Bidding  her  call  at  Dan  Cupid's  shop  and  claim 

her  valentine. 

128 


THE    LAY    OF    LOTHARIO    LEE 

And  as  she  read  the  message,  in  the  soul  of  the 

fair  Florelle 
A  joyful  thought  rang  merrily,  like  a  far-away 

marriage-bell. 

With  her  heart  in  a  frantic  flutter,  adown  the 

street  sped  she. 
Till  she  reached  Dan  Cupid's  pawnshop  at  the 

sign  of  the  Roses  Three. 

Cupid  sat  at  a  workbench,  mending  a  broken 

dart; 
"I  am  Florelle,"  said  she,  "and  I  come  to  claim 

Lothario's  heart. 

"Here  is  the  ticket,  Cupid;  what  are  the  ran- 
som fees? 

See,  I  will  pay  you  the  money;  give  me  the 
heart  if  you  please." 

"But  I  am  blind,"  said  Cupid,  "I  cannot  see  the 

name; 
Describe  the  heart  you  are  looking  for,  and  so 

make  good  your  claim." 

"Lothario's  heart,"  said  the  lady,  "is  brave  and 

knows  no  fear." 
"Alas,"  said  Cupid,  dejectedly,  "no  such  heart 

is  here." 

129 


BAUBLES 

"His  heart,"  said  the  lady,  further,  "is  honest, 

and  good,  and  true." 
"No,"  said  Dan  Cupid,  woefully,  "not  one  of 

these  hearts  will  do." 

"His  heart  to  me  is  single,  it  beats  for  me 

alone." 
"Come,    come,"    cried    Cupid,    "impossible! 

Such  hearts  I've  never  icnown. 

"The  best  in  my  collection  has  been  mended 

once  or  twice, 
But  here's  a  heart  that  may  suit  you,  if  you're 

willing  to  pay  the  price. 

"It's  a  heart  that  is  sad  and  lonely,  a  trifle  hard 

and  cold. 
It  seems  to  be  rather  scarred  and  worn, — in 

fact,  it's  getting  old. 

"It's  somewhat  fickle  and  jealous,  a  bit  im- 
patient, too. 

And  branded  with  several  maidens'  names, — 
Coralie,  Rose,  and  Loo." 

"Why,  that's  the  very  heart  I  want,"  said  the 

lady;  "give  it  to  me. 
That's  the  one  I've  been  describing  to  you,  the 

heart  of  Lothario  Lee!" 
130 


THE    LAY    OF    LOTHARIO    LEE 


c:^ 


As  she  left  the  shop  in  triumph,  said  Cupid,  "I 

seem  to  find 
Each  day  a  more  convincing  fact  to  prove  that 

Love  is  blind." 

131 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

IVTY  childhood's  Christmases  each  brought 

^^^     to  me 

The  wondrous  glory  of  a  Christmas-tree; 

Now  every  year  since  I've  to  manhood  grown, 

I  buy  a  tree  for  children  of  my  own. 

And  so  to-night  my  mind  looks  back  and  sees 

Life  a  long  avenue  of  Christmas-trees. 


132 


I 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

(WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  MR.  HOOD) 

REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  flat  where  I  was  born: 
The  little  air-shaft  where  the  sun 

Could  not  peep  through  at  morn; 
The  stuflfy  rooms  and  narrow  halls 

Unlit  by  Heaven's  ray; 
The  seven  winding  flights  of  stairs 
That  took  my  breath  away 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  sickly  daffodils 
That  bloomed  in  old  tomato-cans 

Upon  the  window-sills; 
The  cupboard  where  the  cake  was  kept, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
A  patent  trap  to  catch  a  mouse, — 

That  mouse  is  living  yet! 
133 


BAUBLES 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  sounds  I  used  to  know: 
The  organ  on  the  floor  above, 

The  violin  below; 
The  cats  upon  the  fire-escape, 

The  steam-heat  in  the  wall; 
The  chorus-girl  a-singing  in 

The  flat  across  the  hall. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  scuttle  dark  and  high 
Through  which  I  often  used  to  climb 

To  get  a  glimpse  of  sky. 
I  live  in  first-floor  chambers  now. 

With  nothing  to  annoy. 
But  still  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


134 


H 


EPITAPH  ON  A  BALLET 
DANCER 

ERE  lies  our  much-loved  Coralie, 
She  danced  o'er  death's  dark  wave; 

We've  seen  her  merry,  but  till  now 
We  never  saw  her  grave. 


135 


AN  IMPORTANT  TRUST 

QCANNING  the  morning  paper  o'er, 
*^     I  find,  to  my  disgust, 
A  new  misfortune  is  in  store — 

"They've  formed  a  Great  Ink  Trust." 

Now  must  I  hang  my  ink-horn  up, 

And  leave  my  pens  to  rust; 
Despair  and  sorrow  fill  my  cup, 

"They've  formed  a  Great  Ink  Trust." 

As  chief  directors,  doubtless,  stand 

The  Publishers,  and  then 
The  Literary  Agents,  and 

The  Clipping  Bureau  men. 

The  stock,  of  course,  is  Limited, 

A  small  part  may  be  sold; 

But  by  a  Syndicate,  'tis  said, 

The  output  is  controlled. 

136 


AN    IMPORTANT    TRUST 

I  own  'twould  give  me  quite  a  shock 

If  these  reports  I  heard : 
"Howells  and  James  are  common  stock," 

And  "Kipling  is  preferred." 

"Le  Gallienne's  margined  heavily; 

Maclaren,  dropped  behind; 
Hope  shows  a  hardening  tendency, 

Doyle's  future  has  declined. 

"Hall  Caine  is  selling  below  par; 

In  Barrie  there's  a  lull; 
Hardy  and  Crawford  steady  are; 

Meredith,  firm  but  dull." 

Disconsolate  and  ill  at  ease 

I'd  read  these  stock  reports; 
I  can't  compete  with  such  as  these — 

It  makes  me  out  of  sorts. 

But  stay!  such  gloomy  thoughts  I'll  flout, 

My  mind  I'll  readjust — 
My  inkstand  yet  may  be  bought  out 

By  this  same  Great  Ink  Trust! 


137 


AN  UNORTHODOX  CHRISTMAS 

T  WENT  to  spend  the  day  with  Rose,  and  then 
■■■     A  Christmas  greeting  passed  between  us 

two; 
But  'twas  not  "Peace  on  Earth,  good-will  to 

men," 
We  only  said,   "Good-morning,"  "How  d' 

ye  do? " 

And  then  to  her  1  offered  smilingly 
The  present  she  expected  me  to  bring; 

There  were  no  hanging  hose — no  Christmas- 
tree — 
The  box  was  tied  in  paper  with  a  string. 

We  didn't  sit  beside  the  Yule-log's  blaze, — 

We  just  turned  on  the  radiator's  steam ; 
And  dinner,  unlike  those  of  storied  days. 
Gave  no  plum-pudding,  but  some  bisque  ice- 
cream. 

138 


AN  UNORTHODOX  CHRISTMAS 

We  did  n't  hear  the  church-bells'  solemn  toll; 

And  when  we  had  our  Christmas  evening 
lunch, 
We  didn't  have  a  steaming  wassail-bowl, 

But  just  a  jug  of  simple  claret  punch. 

We  trampled  on  traditions,  I  suppose; 

Yet  one  rite  we  observed  with  care — but,  no, 
Although  I  well  remember  kissing  Rose, 

It  wasn't  underneath  the  mistletoe. 


139 


IN  THE  KLONDIKE 

T  'M  only  a  homeless  rover 
■^     Up  here  in  a  Klondike  camp; 
I've  looked  my  possessions  over 
By  the  light  of  my  cabin  lamp. 
Though  I'm  an  accepted  lover, 

I'm  miles  from  that  sweetheart  of  mine; 
And  I'm  sore  cast  down 
For  in  Dawson  town 
I  can't  buy  a  valentine. 

I  know  she'll  have  roses  from  Harry, 

A  basket  of  Huyler's  from  Ned; 
Beribboned  carnations  from  Larry, 

A  poetic  effusion  from  Fred; 
A  volume  of  Kipling  or  Barrie 
From  that  idiot,  somebody  Hall, 
And  nothing  of  mine 
For  a  valentine. 
Though  she  loves  me  best  of  all. 
140 


IN    THE    KLONDIKE 


Must  my  sentiment  stay  unspoken 

Because  I've  no  candies  or  bards? 
I  know  she'll  be  just  heart-broken — 
Stay!  here  is  an  old  pack  of  cards! 
Not  a  very  appropriate  token, 
Nor  suggestive  of  Cupid's  darts, 
But  I  know  what  I'll  do 
To  prove  I'm  true — 
I'll  send  her  the    jT 


141 


CELA  VA  SANS  DIRE 

T  LIST  to  the  wail  of  each  latter-day  poet 
"■■     Who  discovers  his  themes  must  be  six 

months  ahead; 
The  same  dire  necessity,  did  he  but  know  it, 
Has  coerced  every  writer,  both  living  and 

dead. 

My  struggles  with  seasons  full  well  1  remember; 
I  am  sure  1  speak  whereof  I  know  when  1  say 
That  Tennyson  wrote  his  May  Queen  in  No- 
vember, 
And  Tom  Hood  composed  his  November  in 
May. 

The  Night  before  Christmas  was  sent  to  the 
printer, 
(I'm  morally  sure)  on  the  Fourth  of  July; 
And  of  course  June,  Dear  June  was  made  up  in 
the  winter. 
And  Spring,  Gentle  Spring,  when  the  Autumn 
was  nigh. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  was  written  in 
Summer, 
Thomson's  Seasons  were  all  written  out  of 
their  time. 
Yet  these  things  astonish  each  timid  newcomer 
Who  aims  to  adopt  the  profession  of  rhyme. 
142 


THE  THOUGHTFUL  YARD- 
STICK 


A 


YARDSTICK  thus  to  himself  did  muse 
As  he  walked  along  the  street; 

I  must  buy  a  pair  and  a  half  of  shoes 
Because  1  have  three  feet." 


143 


MY  FAVOURITE  AUTHOR 

T  HAVE  a  certain  bookcase  where 
•'•     Behind  a  curtain  lurks 
A  row  of  books  beyond  compare, — 
My  favourite  author's  works. 

1  finger  o'er  the  well-loved  tomes, 

I  reverently  note 
The  various  novels,  essays,  poems. 

My  favourite  author  wrote. 

All  eagerly  the  leaves  I  turn, 

Read  here  and  there  a  line; 
Ah,  words  that  ring!    Ah,  thoughts  that  burn! 

Ah,  style  so  true  and  finel 

How  well  the  characters  are  drawn! 

What  charm,  what  atmosphere! 
Subtle,  yet  vivid  as  the  dawn ; 

Mystic,  yet  crystal  clear. 
144 


MY    FAVOURITE    AUTHOR 

And  poems  of  such  metric  art, 
Such  rhythm,  rhyme  and  rune; 

Surely  these  lines  came  from  a  heart 
To  melody  attune! 

Ah,  they  are  wondrously  well  done, — 

The  books  on  that  long  shelf; 
I  thrill  to  think  that  every  one 

Was  written  by  myself! 


M5 


OF  MODERN  BOOKS 

(A  PANTOUM) 

f\P  making  many  books  there  is  no  end, 
^^      Though  myriads  have  to  deep  oblivion 

gone; 
Each  day  new  manuscripts  are  being  penned, 
And  still  the  ceaseless  tide  of  ink  flows  on. 

Though  myriads  have  to  deep  oblivion  gone, 
New  volumes  daily  issue  from  the  press; 

And  still  the  ceaseless  tide  of  ink  flows  on — 
The  prospect  is  disheartening,  I  confess. 

New  volumes  daily  issue  from  the  press; 

My  pile  of  unread  books  I  view  aghast. 
The  prospect  is  disheartening,  I  confess; 

Why  will  these  modern  authors  write  so  fast  ? 

My  pile  of  unread  books  I  view  aghast — 
Of  course  I  must  keep  fairly  up  to  date — 

Why  will  these  modern  authors  write  so  fast? 
They  seem  to  get  ahead  of  me  of  late. 
146 


OF     MODERN     BOOKS 

Of  course  I  must  keep  fairly  up  to  date; 

The  books  of  special  merit  I  must  read ; 
They  seem  to  get  ahead  of  me  of  late, 

Although  I  skim  them  very  fast  indeed. 

The  books  of  special  merit  I  must  read; 

And  then  the  magazines  come  round  again; 
Although  I  skim  them  very  fast  indeed, 

I  can't  get  through  with  more  than  eight  or 
ten. 

And  then  the  magazines  come  round  again ! 
How  can  we  stem  this  tide  of  printer's  ink? 
1  can't  get  through  with  more  than  eight  or 

ten — 
It  is  appalling  when  I  stop  to  think. 

How  can  we  stem  this  tide  of  printer's  ink? 

Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end. 
It  is  appalling  when  I  stop  to  think 

Each  day  new  manuscripts  are  being  penned! 


147 


S  through  Elysian  Fields  I  strayed, 
^     I  chanced  upon  a  sight  amazin'g; 
In  leafy  shade 
Where  fountains  played, 
Old  Pegasus  was  idly  grazing. 

"Why  are  you  here,  my  friend?  "  said  I. 
"Of  modern  poets  are  you  weary?  " 

He  gave  a  sigh, 

And  dropped  his  eye, 
And  seemed  embarrassed  by  my  query. 

Said  he,  "I'm  treated  with  abuse, 

I'm  reckoned  now  among  old-timers; 

There's  no  more  use 

For  Pegasus, 
Since  poets  use  the  auto-rhymers." 

E48 


WITH  TRUMPETS  ALSO  AND 
SHAWMS 

T^O  you  know  the  ecstatical,  statical  Shaw 
■■-^       His  morals  embarrass, 

His  sophistries  harass, 
His  cryptical  poppycock  fills  us  with  awe. 

With  a  smothered  guflfaw, 

He  flicks  on  the  raw, 
Sarcastical,  drastical,  spastical  Shaw. 

He's  a  man  of  sporadical,  radical  views; 

His  wit  is  sardonic, 

His  style  is  ironic. 
Upon  his  sub-subtleties  raptly  we  muse; 

Till  our  minds  we  confuse, 

And  we  roundly  abuse 
His  curious,  furious,  spurious  views. 

He  writes  euphemistical,  mystical  plays. 

In  manner  pugnacious 

On  subjects  audacious; 
A  whole  melodrama  is  crammed  in  a  phrase. 

Yet  so  great  is  the  craze, 

That  we  rabidly  praise 
His  quarrelsome,  moralsome,  laurelsome  plays. 
149 


BAUBLES 

His  great  pyrotechnical,  technical  works 

Abound  in  mad  moclcery, 

Pungent  peacoclcery, 
Marital  moods  that  would  shock  even  Turks; — 

Yet  clergy  and  clerks 

Quote  the  quips  and  the  quirks 
Of  his  wonderful,  blunderful,  thunderful  works. 


ISO 


AN  OVERWORKED 
ELOCUTIONIST 

/^  NCE  there  was  a  little  boy,  whose  name 

^^  was  Robert  Reece; 

And  every  Friday  afternoon  he  had  to  speak  a 
piece. 

So  many  poems  thus  he  learned,  that  soon  he 
had  a  store 

Of  recitations  in  his  head,  and  still  kept  learn- 
ing more. 

And  now  this  is  what  happened:  He  was  called 

upon,  one  week, 
And  totally  forgot  the  piece  he  was  about  to 

speak ! 
His  brain  he  cudgelled.     Not  a  word  remained 

within  his  head! 
And  so  he  spoke  at  random,  and  this  is  what 

he  said: 

151 


BAUBLES 

"My   Beautiful,    my   Beautiful,    who   standest 

proudly  by, 
It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus — the  breaking 

waves  dashed  high! 
Why  is  the  Forum  crowded  ?     What  means  this 

stir  in  Rome? 
Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree  there  is  no 

place  like  home! 

"Whence  come  these  shrieks  so  wild  and  shrill? 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee? 
Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand  and  keep  the 

bridge  with  thee! 
For  this  was  Tell  a  hero  ?     For  this  did  Gessler 

die? 
'The  curse  is  come  upon  me!'  said  the  Spider 

to  the  Fly. 

"When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command  said, 

'Boatswain,  do  not  tarry; 
The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore,  and  while  ye 

may,  go  marry.' 
Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite  the  British 

Grenadiers, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium  lay  dying  in  Algiers! 
152 


AN  OVERWORKED  ELOCUTIONIST 

"The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea!    Roll  on,  roll 

on,  thou  deep! 
Maxwelton  braes  are  bonny,  but  Macbeth  hath 

murdered  sleep! 
Answer  me,  burning  shades  of  night!  What's 

Hecuba  to  me? 
Alone  stood  brave  Horatius!     The  boy — oh! 

where  was  he  ? 

"When  Freedom  from   her  mountain  height 

cried,  Twinkle,  little  star, 
Shoot  if  you  must  this  old  grey  head,   King 

Henry  of  Navarre! 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  castled  crag 

of  Drachenfels, 
My  name  is  Norval,  on  the  Grampian  Hills,  ring 

out,  wild  bells! 

"If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  to  be  or  not 
to  be. 

The  curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.    Oh,  wood- 
man, spare  that  tree! 

Charge,  Chester,   charge!     On,   Stanley,   on! 
And  let  who  will  be  clever! 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck,  but  I  go  on 
forever!" 

153 


BAUBLES 

His  elocution  was  superb,  his  voice  and  gestures 

fine; 
His  schoolmates  all  applauded,  as  he  finished 

the  last  line. 
"I   see   it   doesn't   matter,"   Robert   thought, 

"what  words  I  say. 
So  long  as  I  declaim  with  oratorical  display!" 


154 


BALLADE  OF  ECCLESIASTES 

"D  RAVELY  the  faithful  genius  toils  for  years, 
■■^  Ambition  lures  him  onward  day  by  day; 
At  last  the  fruitage  of  his  work  appears, 

His  friends  approve  and  critics  have  their 
say. 

Men  crown  him  with  the  laurel  and  the  bay, 
The  guerdon  of  his  fame  is  fairly  won, — 

And  has  he  then  performed  a  wonder?  Nay, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 

The  lover,  tossed  about  'mid  hopes  and  fears, 

To  his  fair  goddess  will  insanely  pray. 
And  begs  her  lovely  favour  when  she  hears 
The  melancholy  burden  of  his  lay. 
And  they  assert,  when  she  has  murmured 
"Yea," 
Such  wondrous  love  as  theirs  was  known  to 
none, — 
But  lovers  think  the  selfsame  things  alway. 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 
155 


BAUBLES 

So  as  we  follow  various  careers 

Which  offer  us  a  choice  of  grave  and  gay, 
Made  up  alternately  of  smiles  and  tears, 

A  little  work  and  then  a  little  play. 

As  through  the  years  we  ignorantly  stray, 
Thinking  new  enterprises  we've  begun. 

We  learn,  when  life  is  passing  fast  away. 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 

L'ENVOI 

Solomon,  you  are  long  since  turned  to  clay, 
But  down  the  years  your  words  shall  ring  for 
aye. 
"There  is  no  new  thing  underneath  the  sun, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  shall  be  done." 


IS6 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 

The  Society  of  Tinkling  Symbols  met  in  their 
pleasant  rooms  at  No.  4,  Poetic  Mews.  Spring 
had  passed,  so  their  fancy  was  lightly  turning  to 
other  matters  than  Love,  and  it  chanced  to  turn 
lightly  to  the  Cubist  Movement  in  Art. 

"Of  course,"  mused  President  Swinburne, 
rolling  his  eye  in  an  especially  fine  frenzy,  "this 
movement  will  strike  the  poets  next." 

"Nay,"  said  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  refrain- 
ing for  a  moment  from  the  refrain  he  was  build- 
ing, "we  must  be  ready  for  it." 

"We  must  advance  to  meet  it,"  said  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  who  was  ever  of  an  adventurous 
nature;  "what's  it  all  about?  " 

'The  principles  are  simple,"  observed  RoTSert 
Browning,  glancing  from  heaven  to  earth,  from 
earth  to  heaven;  "in  fact,  it's  much  like  my 
own  work  always  has  been.  I  was  born  cubic. 
You  see,  you  just  symbolise  the  liquefaction  of 
the  essence  of  an  idea  into  its  emotional  con- 
stituents, and  there  you  are!" 
157 


BAUBLES 

"Dead  easy!"  declared  Alfred  Tennyson, 
who  went  out  poeting  by  the  day,  and  knew 
how  to  do  any  kind.    "What's  the  subject?  " 

"That's  just  the  point,"  said  President  Swin- 
burne; "preeminently  and  exclusively  it's  sub- 
jective, and  you  must  keep  it  so.  On  no  ac- 
count allow  an  object  of  any  kind  to  creep  in. 
Now  here's  one  of  the  Cubist  pictures;  they  call 
it  'A  Nude  Descending  the  Staircase.'  They 
pick  names  at  random  out  of  a  hat,  I  believe. 
Take  this,  you  fellows,  and  throw  it  into 
poetry." 

"Any  rules  or  conditions?"  asked  William 
Wordsworth. 

"Absolutely  none.    It's  the  Ruleless  School." 

Then  the  Poets  opened  the  aspiration  valves, 
ignited  the  divine  spark  plugs,  and  whiz!  went 
their  meter-motors  in  a  whirring,  buzzing  melo- 
dy. 

Soon  their  Cubist  emotions  were  splashed 
upon  paper,  and  the  Poets  read  with  justifiable 
pride  these  symbolic  results. 

President  Swinburne  tossed  off  this  poetic 
gem  without  a  bit  of  trouble: 


158 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 

Square  eyelids  that  hide  like  a  jewel; 

Ten    heads, — though    I    sometimes    count 
more; 
Six  mouths  that  are  cubic  and  cruel; 

Of  mixed  arms  and  legs,  twenty-four; 
Descending  in  Symbolic  glories 

Of  lissome  triangles  and  squares; 
Oh,  mystic  and  subtle  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Stairs. 

You  descend  like  an  army  with  banners. 

In  a  cyclone  of  wrecked  parasols. 
You  look  like  a  mob  with  mad  manners 

Or  a  roystering  row  of  Dutch  dolls. 
Oh,  Priestess  of  Cubical  Passion, 

Oh,  Deification  of  Whim, 
You  seem  to  walk  down  in  the  fashion 

That  lame  lobsters  swim. 

Here  we  have  Mr.  P.  B.  Shelley's  noble  lines: 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Nude  thou  never  wert. 
Not  from  Heaven  or  near  it 

Breathed  thy  cubic  heart 
In  profuse  stairs  of  unintelligible  art. 
159 


BAUBLES 

What  thou  art,  we  know  not; 

What  is  thee  most  like  ? 
Snakes  tied  in  a  bow-knot? 

Stovepipes  on  a  strike? 
Or  Bellevue  inmates  on  a  Suffrage  hike! 


We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  thy  face  to  see; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

Is  aroused  by  thee. 
Art  thou  perchance  the  sad  cube  root  of  23  ? 


Mr.  R.  Kipling  felt  a  flash  of  his  old  fire,  and 
threw  in  a  high  speed : 


On  an  old  symbolic  staircase, 

Looking  forty  ways  at  once; 
There's  a  Cubist  Nude  descending. 

With  the  queerest  sort  of  stunts. 
For  the  staircase  is  a-falling. 

And  the  Noodle  seems  to  say, 
"Tho'  you  hear  my  soul  a-calling. 

You  can't  see  me,  anyway!" 
i6o 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 

Oh,  this  Symbol  balderdash, 
And  this  Post-Impression  trash; 

Can't  you  see  their  paint  a-chunkin'  in  a 
hotchy-potchy  splash? 
Where  the  motives  bold  and  brash 
Of  the  Cubist  painters  clash, 

And  the  Nude  descends  like  thunder  down  a 
staircase  gone  to  smash! 

But  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti,  ever  a  sweet  singer, 
warbles  thus  tunefully : 

The  Blessed  Nude  at  eve  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  staircase  rail; 
Her  paint  was  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  in  a  pail. 
She  wore  three  bonnets  on  her  heads, 

And  seven  coats  of  mail. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  swayed 

In  circling  cubic  charms. 
And  the  pigments  of  her  painted  soul 

Were  loud  as  war's  alarms. 
But  the  staircase  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  fourteen  arms. 
i6i 


BAUBLES 

(I  saw  her  move!)  But  soon  her  path 
Was  cubes  instead  of  spheres; 

And  then  she  disappeared  among 
The  staircase  barriers; 

And  after  she  was  gone,  I  saw 

She'd  wept  some  large  paint  tears! 

Mr.  R.  Browning  finds  the  subject  greatly  to 
his  hking: 

Who  will  may  hear  the  Staircase  Story  told; 
All  its  blobs,  splotches,  facets, — what  you  will; 
The  vague  Nude,  compassed  murkily  about 
With  ravage  of  six  long  sad  hundred  stairs, 
Dizzily  plunging  with  tumultuous  glee! 
Whirling  the  stairdust,  hazarding  oblique. 
The  moon  safe  in  her  pocket !  see  she  treads 
Cool  citric  crystals,  fierce  pyropus  stone; 
While  crashing  sunbeams  in  a  triple  line 
Smirk  at  the  insane  roses  in  her  hair, 
And  Strojavacca,  frowning,  looks  asquint 
To  see  that  trick  of  toe, — that  dizened  heel, — 
As  she,  the  somewhat,  hangs  'twixt  naught  and 

naught 
A  perfect  Then, — a  sub-potential  Now — 
A  facile  and  slabsided  centipede. 
162 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 
And  here  is  Mr.  B.  Jonson's  little  jingle: 

Still  to  be  cubed,  still  to  be  square, 
As  you  were  going  down  a  stair; 
Still  to  see  lurid  pigments  sluiced, — 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  deduced, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  square,  all  is  not  round. 

Give  me  a  cube,  give  me  a  line 
That  malces  a  whirling  maze  design; 
Robes  made  of  sheet-iron,  flowing  free, — 
Such  sweet  device  more  taketh  me 
Than  masterpieces  of  old  Rubes 
Which  charm  not  eyes  attuned  to  cubes. 

And  Mr.  J.  W.  Riley  sings  in  his  usual  com- 
forting strain: 

There,  little  Nude,  don't  cry! 

You've  descended  the  stairs,  I  know; 
And  the  weird  wild  ways 
Of  the  Cubist  Jays 
Have  made  you  a  holy  show! 
But  Post  Impressions  will  soon  pass  by. 
There,  little  Nude,  don't  cry,  don't  cry! 
163 


BAUBLES 

Sir  A.  Tennyson  caught  the  Cubical  spirit 
neatly,  thus: 

As  the  staircase  is,  the  Nude  is;  thou  art  paint- 
ed by  a  freak, 

And  I  think  that  he  has  knocked  thee  to  the 
middle  of  next  week. 

He  will  paint  thee  (till  this  fashion  shall  expend 
its  foolish  force), 

Something  like  a  rabid  dog, — a  little  larger 
than  a  horse. 

Semblance?     Likeness?     Scorned  of  Cubists! 

This  th'  evangel  that  he  sings; 
Any  picture's  crown  of  glory  is  to  look  like 

other  things. 
So  thou  art  not  seen  descending  in  the  ordinary 

way. 
But  like  fifty  motor-cycles,  breaking  speed  laws 

in  Cathay. 

Mr.  C.  Kingsley  was  gently  interested: 

My  Cubist  Nude,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you; 

I  could  not  pipe  you,  howsoe'er  I  tried. 
But  ere  I  go,  I  wish  that  you  would  teach  me 
That  Staircase  Slide ! 
164 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 

Be  skittish,  child,  and  let  who  will  be  graceful, 
Do    whizzy    whirls    whenever    you've    the 
chance; 
And  so  malce  life,  death  and  that  grand  old 
staircase 

One  song  and  dance. 

Oscar  Wilde  was  moody,  and  this  was  his 
mood: 

Adown  the  stairs  the  Nudelet  came; 
(Pale  pinlc  eats  up  a  purple  tree!) 
Hark!  to  the  smitten  cubes  of  flame! 
Ah,  me!  Ah,  jamboree! 

Her  soul  seethed  in  emotions  sweet; 

(Pale  pink  eats  up  a  purple  tree!) 
Symbolling  like  a  torn-up  street; 

Ah,  jamboree!  ah,  me! 

And  still  the  Nude's  soul-cubes  are  there, — 
(Pale  pink  eats  up  a  purple  tree!) 

In  writhen  glory  of  despair, — 
Ah,  me!  Ah,  Hully  Gee! 
i6s 


BAUBLES 

Mr.  W.  Wordsworth  was  frankly  disdainful; 

She  trod  among  the  untrodden  maze 

Of  Cubists  on  a  spree; 
A  Nude  when  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  could  see. 

A  violet  'neath  a  mossy  stone, 

Quite  hidden  from  the  eye, 
Is  far  more  easy  to  discern 

Than  that  same  Nude  to  spy. 

She  lived  unseen.    Though  some  few  fakes 

Pretended  her  to  see; 
But  if  she's  on  the  stairs,  it  makes 

No  difference  to  me. 

Mr.  Longfellow  fairly  let  himself  go: 

The  picture's  done!    And  the  Staircase 
Falls  like  the  crash  of  night. 

And  the  Nude  is  wafted  downward 
Like  a  catapult  in  flight. 

There's  a  feeling  of  strange  emotion 

That  is  not  akin  to  art; 
And  resembles  a  picture  only 

As  a  Tartar  resembles  a  tart. 
i66 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  LITERATI 

Such  art  has  power  to  rouse 

Our  laughter  at  any  time, 
And  comes  like  electrocution 

That  follows  after  crime. 


And  Mr.  Bunner's  poetic  gem  has  a  charm 
all  its  own : 


It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old,  lady, 
On  a  staircase  at  half-past  three; 

And  the  way  she  was  painted  together 
Was  beautiful  for  to  see. 


She  wasn't  visible  any, 

And  the  staircase,  no  more  was  he; 
For  it  was  a  Cubist  picture 

With  a  feeling  of  deep  skewgee. 


Twas  a  symbol  of  soul  expression, 

Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be! 

That  emotional  old,  old  lady 
On  a  staircase  at  half-past  three. 
167 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBfiAflY  f  ACILrTY 


A    00 


368  867    6 


